


Just One Yesterday

by plaguedbynargles



Series: Thanks for the Memories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Crime Scenes, Cutting, Dark Sherlock, Drug Use, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Jim, Jealous Jim, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Instability, Murder, NSFW, Protective John, Rough Sex, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 53
Words: 77,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguedbynargles/pseuds/plaguedbynargles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Mighty Fall. Sheriarty. There will be a bit of Johnlock, but nothing major, I promise. Eventual character death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Date

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this fic! As stated in the description, this is the sequel to The Mighty Fall (I strongly suggest you read it before starting this). I’d almost say it’s a series of oneshots that are all connected, but that makes it sound like it has less of a plot than it does. There will be a little bit of Johnlock, but not until much later, and nothing will come of it. I promise it’s nothing cringe worthy; this is still most definitely a Sheriarty fic. I also feel a need to warn you of later character death. If that’s the sort of thing that will really bother you, then steer clear. DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock, I only own the scenarios and OCs I create. So without further ado, here’s the first chapter.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

               “No,” Sherlock drawled, “Not a bit.”

               Greg Lestrade stared incredulously at the detective before stealing a glance towards James Moriarty, followed by John Watson. Both stood on either side of the detective, stony-faced.

               James raised an eyebrow, “Do you not trust me, detective inspector?” he said in a lilted voice, staring down the silver haired man with fathomless eyes.

               Greg quickly backtracked, “No no no,” he said hastily, “Of course I trust you, James, it’s just that-”

               “We can’t allow every new boyfriend Sherlock finds into crime scenes that only _professionals_ are supposed to be involved with,” Sally Donovan appeared, eager as ever to discourage Sherlock, it seemed. However, the hard headed sergeant seemed to recently have started subtly targeting James, far more than the detective.

               “I was never his boyfriend,” John interjected, “And James is just as smart as Sherlock, so can we just see the body?”

               Lestrade paused a moment before finally sighing, “Alright, but if I get sacked for this, you’re to blame.” He grudgingly turned around and led them towards the large industrial building the squad cars surrounded.

               As soon as they were out of hearing range, James muttered to Sherlock, “It’s not like I could _do_ anything, anyway. The body’s already dead.” The detective snorted and the criminal halfheartedly smirked.

               “And you’re sure this isn’t one of yours?” Sherlock asked in a low voice.

               “Positive.”

               “Will you two keep your voices down, they’ve got mics,” John interjected, looking grumpy.

               “Oh, Johnny, don’t worry. I would _never_ do anything that would get us in trouble,” James grinned coldly at John, knowing that the doctor was _really_ only telling _him_ to shut up, not Sherlock. His smile only had one message behind it, and that was ‘Back off’.

               “Just try not to do anything crude, James,” John snapped and walked ahead of them, Sherlock watching the entire exchange with unease. The detective would never admit it, but he too was nervous about James’s first time on a case with them. There still was a large (admittedly more rational) part of him that didn’t trust the consulting criminal. John wasn’t unreasonable for being antsy; he was smarter than Sherlock. As they continued walking, the detective accepted that this would be one of the many (unsettling) occasions when he allowed sentiment to rule over his better judgment. He and James remained silent until they were inside, the criminal able to deduce for himself why his partner’s brow was furrowed.

***************

               “Here it is,” Lestrade led the group of three into the flat, neatly sealed off with police tape. When they ducked into the room, all three took a moment to just stare and take it in, while Lestrade, knowing how Sherlock liked to work, waited patiently.

               The room was completely demolished. Every single window was shattered, though it didn’t look like they had been broken with blunt objects. The pieces of glass on the floor were tiny; almost dust-like. Dishes had been thrown across the flat, from the kitchen to the living room. Furniture lay splintered in pieces, and a young woman’s body was right in the center of the madness. Sherlock’s first thought upon seeing the damage was “tornado”.

               “Nightmare, isn’t it?” Lestrade finally broke the silence, “Some people reported a high pitched screeching, as well.”

               John coughed, “Isn’t that normal? For a murder scene?”

               “No, actually,” Lestrade sounded unsure, “The people who called in… they said it was louder than anything they’ve ever heard. Said it wasn’t human, or mechanical, or anything like that. They said they had to turn around and walk in the other direction, it was so bad…”

               “How many people reported this,” Sherlock asked sharply.

               “5. Two were couples, and one was alone.”

               Sherlock huffed before briskly striding past the detective inspector to begin examining the scene. James hesitated for a moment before following him. The criminal carefully made his way around the room, arms crossed as he studied the scene. Meanwhile, John watched as Sherlock carefully examined the body.

               The woman’s eyes were completely burned out, and there was grey liquid leaking out of her ears. Her mouth was frozen in a horrified expression, and Sherlock and John had to breathe through their mouths to avoid gagging at the smell. They could almost taste the already decaying flesh.

               _Brains completely liquefied. Eyes burned out. Loud noise. Room demolished. Wind? Poison? Venom?_ Sherlock suddenly had an idea. His eyes were alight with intrigue as he looked up from the corpse to where James was examining a desk in a corner of the room.

               “Look for glasses,” Sherlock called to James, getting up.

               “What do you think I’ve been doing?” the criminal smirked at his own successful deduction. He was pleased that he was keeping up with Sherlock.

               Lestrade watched with unease as the detective entered a hallway leading off from the main room, halfheartedly taking a few steps to follow him, so as to keep an eye on him. He realized then that he had a much bigger priority of watching James. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about the man that made Greg want to shiver and lock his doors at night. He trusted Sherlock, but he wasn’t sure he trusted his judgment on James. Of course, it was completely irrational. The man had a clear record with the government, not to mention a newly cleared police record. Perhaps Lestrade was being paranoid. Perhaps James was just a better actor than he should be; the silver haired man still saw a criminal psychopath whenever he looked at him.

               “Did you find them?” James asked as Sherlock marched back into the main room.

               “No,” the detective grumbled, frustrated.

               “Sorry, what?” Lestrade asked.

               James huffed, “Contact lenses. They obviously put something lethal in them to blind her, then gave her something else for-”

               “No, wait a minute,” Lestrade interrupted the Irishman, and was slightly alarmed at the expression it brought to his eyes. He stumbled over his next words slightly as a result, “Already- we already tested her eyes and her blood and it’s all normal. She wasn’t poisoned.”

               “Not-?” Sherlock squinted.

               “Why would someone just burn her eyes out and demolish the apartment? This wasn’t caused by a struggle!” John said, gesturing to the mess surrounding them.

               “Ex-lover, perhaps?” James suggested, “Vengeance does mad things to a person.”

               “No, she was asexual,” Sherlock said. Rather than ask how he knew, the group just stared down intensely at the corpse, trying to formulate some sort of theory.

               They didn’t move for a long time.

******************

               “Well that was…interesting,” James sighed, attempting to hail a cab.

               “Ugh, don’t do that! Usually it’s much better. The unfinished ones are so-”

               “Intriguing? Challenging? Mysterious?” James grinned up at the frowning detective, who shook his head.

               “Don’t tell me I accidentally became flat mates with _another_ romantic,” Sherlock scoffed.

               “ _John_ is a romantic?” James asked incredulously, eyes wandering to the doctor, who was speaking on the phone with his newest girlfriend several meters away.

               “You’d never know it, from his track record,” Sherlock said blankly.

               James snickered, “I hope you don’t expect flowers from me on our anniversary, Sherlock.”

               The detective grimaced and wrinkled his nose, “God no. Send me a body, instead.”

               James froze in his attempts to get a cab momentarily to stare at the detective. He raised his eyebrows and grinned dangerously, wondering if Sherlock was being serious or not. The detective rolled his eyes.

               “Not _really_ , James. Remember the last time you sent me a body?”

               “How could I forget? You never called me back,” James mock pouted as a cab finally pulled to the curb, and the criminal climbed in. Sherlock paused a moment before entering, turning to look at John again. When the doctor caught his eyes, he waved him on, seeming to mouth the name of his girlfriend. Sherlock gave a small nod of acknowledgement before entering the car.


	2. Stars

“What are we doing here?” Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms in discomfort. He had developed a hatred of high places (irrational as it was) and the Bart’s Hospital rooftop bothered him most of all, despite knowing that neither he nor James had planned to die that day so long ago. The night sky and crisp wind only made the detective more anxious. He felt unusually exposed; vulnerable and small as though he was looking up at the stars from inside a giant snowglobe.

               The criminal hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “Call it sentiment.” To Sherlock’s discomfort, James now sat on the edge of the building, legs dangling over the side. The headlights of taxis and other transport rushed by in the busy London streets, reflected in the criminal’s gaze as he studied them. The detective remained a safe distance away from the edge, still trying to work past his mysterious unease.         

               “Sentiment,” Sherlock scoffed, “Not the word I would use.”

               “No?” James turned around, raising an eyebrow flirtatiously at the detective, “And what word would you use?”

               Sherlock took a tentative step forward on the roof, and James for the first time noticed the detective’s discomfort. Was Sherlock still afraid of him? The criminal quickly dropped his flirting tone in favor for a more serious one.

               “You still-?” James began, studying the detective from where he sat on the ledge. _Surely_ someone like Sherlock wouldn’t be so irrational as to still fear the place they both faked their deaths?

               “Of course not,” Sherlock snapped, only confirming the criminal’s suspicions. Despite his exceptional skills at reading others, it was very easy to tell when the detective himself was upset.

               “You do,” James breathed, getting up and making his way to the detective, “Of course you do.”

               Sherlock stared, eyes narrowed, “Why are we here?” he demanded, attempting to steady his erratic heartbeat.

               “Is this not what lovers do?” James asked softly, “Stay out under the stars?” It wasn’t a joke, so much as a hidden apology. The criminal himself was feeling uncomfortable, now that he could see Sherlock didn’t feel right. He _hated_ when the detective felt unhappy.

               Sherlock turned away, looking out over the city. He felt James’s eyes boring into his back.

               “Sherlock,” James scolded impatiently, “I’m waiting for an answer.” The criminal didn’t miss the detective’s slight wince.

               “…Are you afraid of me?” James asked hesitantly. God, he hoped not. Even when they hadn’t been on the best of terms, James would never have dreamed that Sherlock _feared_ him. Was fear not an ordinary trait? The only time he had ever seen Sherlock look onto him with true fear had been the day James had taken a knife to the detective, and even then, that was instinct. If Sherlock harbored an actual phobia of him… well, that would have to be changed. _Could_ it be changed, though?

               When Sherlock spun on his heel to answer James, he noticed a hint of resignation in the criminal’s eyes.

               “The last time I was on this rooftop,” Sherlock began, “A criminal mastermind had turned all of my colleagues against me. He had snipers trained on all of my loved ones, and threatened to kill them all if I didn’t kill myself.”

               James stared, “You didn’t intend to kill yourself.”

               Sherlock said nothing, his sharp gaze telling James all he needed to convey.

               “No,” James breathed, eyes widening in surprise, “You considered it?” He almost looked angry.

               “If it came to that. I had thirteen plans to get off the rooftop.”

               “Plan thirteen?” James asked incredulously, “You’re more blinded by your love for Johnny than I thought, Sherlock-”

               “Stop it!” Sherlock commanded, “This isn’t about John. You brought me here so you’d be able to assess my loyalty to you; how blinded I was by love to forget past events.”

               James’s stare was a challenge, “And it seems,” he said threateningly, “That I was incorrect in my initial assessment.”

               “Can you blame me?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and James balked.

               “I expected better, is all.”

               “You expected better than me to forget the man who tried to kill me?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

               “I’m different, Sherlock,” James said deeply, eyes dark, “Things are different now.”

               “So they are,” the detective said softly, soothing James’s anger slightly. Perhaps there was hope.

               The criminal sighed, “Yet after all this time, I’m still a madman, out for blood.”

               “And I’ll always be the virgin detective, who everyone thinks is gay for his flat mate.”

               James grinned, “They’re not completely wrong, now.”

               Sherlock smirked, “True.”

               The two men were now only inches apart, and James gazed up at the detective with sharp eyes.

               “You know there was a moment on the rooftop,” he began, “Where I was tempted to kiss you.”

               Sherlock snorted, “Now?”

               James rolled his eyes, “Clever, clever. Nice try, darling. No, not now.”

               “When?” Sherlock was intrigued, yet doubtful.

               “…You told me you weren’t an angel.”

               “And?”

               James licked his lips, “And I almost laughed, because I knew that was ridiculous.”

               “Oh?”

               “I still think it’s ridiculous.”

               Anyone walking on the streets of London at that ungodly hour wouldn’t have heard the following kiss. However, if they looked upwards toward the hospital rooftop at exactly the right angle, they would have seen a figure in a long coat and a slightly smaller man in a tailored suit, writhing together under the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy, I know. Don’t you worry don’t you worry child. There will be…other things to come. ;) Trust me, enjoy the fluffy one-shot-y types while they last.


	3. Drink

James giggled, stroking Sherlock’s hair as he lay motionless, head on the table.

               “He’s so _cute_ when he’s asleep, isn’t he, John?” the criminal grinned in delight.

               “If you say so,” John slurred, shrugging his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

               In hindsight, perhaps taking shots on Sherlock’s birthday hadn’t been the best idea. Even through the dense fog clouding his thoughts, John felt a vague sense of unease now that it was just James and him awake. However, the criminal, still grinning and chuckling like a fool, didn’t seem particularly threatening at the moment, so John was content allowing his drunkenness to take over for the night.

               “Ok-ayy,” James’s voice was lilted, “It’s _your_ turn, Johnny.” He continued stroking the detective’s hair happily.

               “Alright… truth or... _dare_?” John placed emphasis on the last word for dramatic effect.

               The criminal rolled his eyes, “Truth, _obviously_ …” James had been choosing truth all night, and it was beginning to frustrate John, who had already had to stuff ice cubes down his pants three times.

               “Oh come _on_ ,” the doctor complained, “Do you have no sense of... of _danger_?”

               “HAHAHAHA!” James burst out laughing, and John was reminded vaguely of those… dog things from The Lion King, “Danger? I _laugh_ in the face of danger! Hahahaha!” the criminal threw his head back as he howled with glee. Finally, when his laughter had dissipated into chuckles, a drowsy John took his turn.

               “Have you ever had a wank in a public place?”

               James rolled his eyes dramatically, “I- no. I have _class_ , John.”

               “Okay…” John trailed off, unconvinced.

               “Truth, or dare?”

               “Mmmm…. Truth.”

               “What is the worst pornography you’ve ever watched?” James grinned mischeviously.

               “Oh, god,” John fell into a fit of laughter, and it took a moment for him to compose himself enough to respond. James’s dark eyes watched him from the other side of the table. “I think… probably that one with the two girls, and the… the….” The doctor struggled to recall the name of the video.

               James continued stroking Sherlock’s hair, losing interest in the game. John, in his drunken stupor, forgot what he was supposed to be remembering, and instead just took his turn.

               “Truth or dare?” he asked James.

               “Truth,” James didn’t look up from the detective.

               “Have you ever…” John paused, trying to think of a good question, “Have you ever… bottomed for Sherlock?”

               The criminal snickered to himself, though his eyes looked slightly bashful as he looked down at the table. Finally, when he looked up at John, James’s eyes glinted with mischief.

               “No way I’m telling _you_ ,” the criminal grinned, giving John’s shoulder a playful shove, “I don’t _like_ you.”

               John’s drunken grin faltered for a split second as he attempted to assess this information, before shaking his head and discarding it. It probably wasn’t important, anyway.

               “Okay,” James clapped his hands together, “ _Truth_ , or _dare_ ,” he said with an air of theatrics.

               “ _Truth_ ,” John slurred.

               “Have _you_ ever bottomed for Sherlock?” James asked, leaning across the table with wide eyes.

               “Pfft!” John scoffed as spit flew across the table, “Do you mean, like, _in bed_?”

               James nodded eagerly.

               The doctor rolled his eyes, “Course _not_. That would be…”

               “What about topping?” James interrupted.

               “…Huh?” John was cocked his head to the side, confused.

               James resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “Have you ever… you know… _topped_ for Sherlock?”

               John smiled and giggled, covering his face with a hand.

               “You _have_?” James’s astonishment looked almost childlike.

               John shook his head, still giggling and grinning.

               “Have you… thought about it?” James asked slowly.

               John shook his head, “No I… I am _not gay_ ,” he pointed a finger across the table at James, who again resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

               “I know, _silly_ ,” he gave John another playful shove, “It’s just a _game_ , you know.”

               “I _know_ , I know,” John said, “Truth… or dare?”

               “Truth”

               “Alright tell meee…. Why you don’t like me.”

               James sighed, pouting, “There’s a lot of _reasons_ , honey,” he said in a voice coated in sugar.

               “Like what?”

               “Like…” James gestured with his hands, pursing his lips as he tried to think of a response, “You remind me of someone.”

               John nodded, his hand supporting his head as he studied James.

               The criminal rolled his eyes, grinning at the doctor, “That’s _all_ you’re getting.” John didn’t notice the hint of bitterness in his expression as his head slowly lowered to the table and sleep took him into her arms.

               James’s foolish manner and crocodile grin were wiped from his face in an instant as he dropped the façade. Thank God that was over. It had been a… worrisome night. He wished he had gotten a more straight answer from the fool on his feelings for Sherlock. However, it was clear that there was _something_ there, and James was determined to extinguish that spark before it became a flame.

               The criminal stroked his angel’s hair, gazing down at the detective with deep eyes. He wondered what Sherlock dreamt about. Probably nothing he would ever tell James. Perhaps that would be the criminal’s next mission with the detective. He was sure a hungover Sherlock would _love_ being asked about the dreams he’d had while passed out from intoxication.

               James looked away from the detective, seeing his phone light up from the corner of his eye. A new message from Sebastian. He stopped stroking Sherlock’s hair to view the message.

               _Hanging tree is complete. –SM_

               James blinked before typing out a reply.

               _Good. I trust you will find your pay satisfactory. –JM_

_Of course, boss. –SM_

               James put his phone down with satisfaction. Another job finished. Cases with Sherlock were amusing, but truly, crime was what he did best.

               The criminal stood up before pouring the very last of the liquor into a shot glass, which he quickly downed and set down on the table with a satisfying clink.

               Never try to out drink an Irishman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it’s short! I know. But I hope you liked it. I love writing drunk James, but I love writing deceiving James a bit more ;) and I think it fitted into the plot better this way, anyway. R&R, and I’ll see you next time!


	4. Call

Sherlock was seething with rage. Even worse, it was John’s fault.

               Of course, John _had_ to tell Mycroft that he was ignoring his brother’s case. Of _course_.

               “I didn’t mean to!” John’s voice echoed in Sherlock’s mind as he stormed the streets of London. John likely was calling Michelle (or whatever the new one’s name was) right now to complain about his freak of a flatmate.

               In a split second decision, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed James’s number.

***

               James glanced down at his now ringing phone, irritated that someone would call him now, when he was right in the middle of a job. When he saw the caller ID, however, his expression softened slightly and he pressed the answer button.

               “Sherlock?”

               _“I have HAD it, James! I am through with dealing with all these people_ ,” James was surprised at the rage in the detective’s voice—he was usually so collected. Today he was really upset about something. With a pang of… nervousness(?) James realized he had never had to deal with this sort of thing before.

               “What happened?” It came out more cold than he intended it to.

               _“John decided to tell my dear brother that I was ignoring his case,”_ Sherlock spat into the phone, _“And now not only do I have to deal with his lecture, but I also have to deal with Lestrade pestering me about why I didn’t finish_ his _case and Donovan and_ Anderson _…”_

“…”

               _“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”_ Before James could protest, Sherlock had hung up the phone.

***

               Sherlock picked up his ringing phone in dismay, “What?” he snapped.

               _“I’m sorry that…happened.”_

“…Get back to work, James.”

               _“No.”_

“This is awkward for both of us. I should just-”

               _“Where are you?”_

“What?”

               _“I said, where are you?”_

“What the hell does it matter where I am?”

               _“For God’s sake, doofus, just answer the question.”_

“I’m on Jermyn, why?”

               _“Stop and just stay right where you are.”_ Sherlock heard rapid typing in the background. He huffed as he stopped his rapid walking to stand in the center of the sidewalk, not bothering to move out of people’s way.

               After a few minutes, the detective was growing impatient, “What the hell am I-?”

               The question never completely left his lips as he saw the largest ad screen in front of him transform. The former makeup ad had been replaced with large, bold text.

               “Fuck humanity.” It read.

               Sherlock heard chuckling from the other side of the phone and found it difficult to suppress a smirk.

               “You know it’s a bit sad that you laugh at your own jokes,” he said sardonically.

               _“Look to your left.”_

Sherlock did as he was told and raised an eyebrow in spite of himself. There was a man in a collared shirt throwing a fit over James’s hacked advertisement, gesturing widely and trying, unsuccessfully, to get others to stop and look at it.

               Sherlock huffed into the phone in amusement.

               _“Are you guys seeing this? I can’t be the only one seeing this!”_ James mocked into the phone, narrating the man’s actions. _That_ made Sherlock grin.

               “How are you watching this?” He asked, despite the pointless nature of the question. He strangely felt a lot better.

               _“A true magician never reveals his secrets, darling. I have to finish something, so I’ll see you later.”_

“You will?” Sherlock was surprised; he’d thought James wasn’t going to be finished with his current ‘case’ until morning.

               _“Of course, doofus.”_

Sherlock was about to hang up when James spoke up again.

               _“Oh, and Sherlock?”_

“Yes?”

               _“Don’t hesitate to… call if you need… anything like this again.”_

“I prefer to-”

               _“Call me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff yay ^_^ R&R pretty please, and thank you dearly if you already have.


	5. Nightmare

_John walked through the door to the crumbling building. Dust and rubble were everywhere, making the inside of the structure a labyrinth in the darkness._

_“Over here, Johnny boy,” a voice echoed in the darkness._

_John’s stomach dropped as he found the source of the voice. Moriarty stood next to a table, where Sherlock was strapped down; crude leather cuffs around his ankles, wrists, and across his chest rendering him motionless. Flame from several torches lit the room, and John could feel the building shaking as bombs dropped outside._

_“Do you know what I’d like to do to Sherly, John?”_

_“Let him go!” John commanded in alarm. Sherlock was motionless on the table. He looked just like he had the day he fell…_

_With a pang, John realized Sherlock was already dead. How had he not noticed the head wound? Thick blood was steadily pouring out of his skull, dripping first onto the table, then onto the dirt floor._

_“Don’t worry, John. I_ loved _him more than you ever could. Or he thought so…” Jim gazed down at the detective sadistically._

_“No…” John shook his head. This couldn’t be happening._

_“Watch this,” Jim circled around the table and knelt at Sherlock’s side. He opened his mouth to expose sharp teeth and a long tongue, and without breaking eye contact with John, licked straight across the wound on Sherlock’s head. When he turned around to face John, his mouth was coated in blood he hadn’t bothered to wipe off, and his formerly white teeth were coated in the crimson, sticky liquid._

_The criminal grinned as he walked towards John, who tried and failed to run away. His feet were rooted to the ground._

_“What’s the matter, Johnny boy?” Jim’s breath was hot on John’s face, “Don’t you trust me?”_

_John felt ready to vomit. He had to get out, he had to run, had to…_

_Suddenly, Jim’s face transformed into a much more dangerous expression. He was furious._

_“Have it your way,_ Carl _,” the criminal snarled as he pulled a dagger out, and stabbed John in the shoulder._

***

               John awoke with a jolt in a cold sweat. He studied his surroundings, looking for possible threats. Books everywhere, night outside, James on the couch. His old shoulder wound from the war hurt slightly from the strange position he had slept in, but other than that, everything seemed normal. He attempted to steady his breathing, taking deep breaths in through the mouth and out through the nose, just as he had learned in therapy. His heart hammered on.

               Right, they had been working a case. Where was Sherlock, then? He felt a little better at the bored expression on James’s face as he flipped through one of the many books they had borrowed for research. Perhaps the criminal hadn’t noticed that he had fallen asleep. It was disturbing to no end to picture himself vulnerable, sleeping, with only James in the flat.

               “Where… er…” John started once his breathing had slowed down, “Where is Sherlock?” His tone smoothed out to one of forced politeness.

               “Out,” James answered. He was feeling frustrated to no end with this case, and didn’t much feel like talking to his least favorite doctor. Or person, for that matter.

               John scoffed, irritated, “Yes, I can see that! Where did he go?” Panic was creeping back into his voice again.

               “He said he wanted to ask a favor of someone,” James drawled, disinterested still.

               “What kind of a favor?” John was clearly distressed now, “Where the hell is he? How the hell am I supposed to know you didn’t just kill him while I was-”

               “John,” James responded calmly, cutting off John’s tirade, “Do you honestly think if the two of you fell asleep, Sherlock would be the first one I’d kill?”

               John didn’t answer, and he didn’t sleep again that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darker chapter this time. Hope you all enjoyed! I know it’s short. Length will vary with these, depending on how long they need to be. R&R, and I’ll see you next time!


	6. Hunt

“What about this one?” James led Sherlock over to the shop window now nearest to them, in which a male mannequin posed with a scarlet, thick knit scarf. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing the article of clothing, hand still entwined with James’s.

               “Not bad. It’s more you than me,” the detective said offhandedly. The November air was crisp with oncoming winter, and the wind ruffled the detective’s dark curls slightly.

               James raised his eyebrows and turned to look at his partner, “Really? I wouldn’t be stealing your ‘look’?”

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, “No, you wouldn’t. If you want to steal my ‘look’, be my guest and take the ear hat.”

               James shook his head, chuckling, “I will never be able to _comprehend_ your loathing for that hat-”

               “Fags,” the detective and criminal froze, turning around to see two young men walking away from them, shoving each other and laughing. The taller of the two turned around to look at Sherlock and James, only to quickly turn back around and shove his friend forwards, trying to make him walk faster. He was blonde, and looked to be about twenty, while his friend was redheaded, and around the same age. The two climbed into their car, not noticing the man now discreetly photographing their vehicle.

<br />

               “Sherlock.”

               “Mm?”

               “We’re doing this, you know.”

               “You can do what you want.”

               James without warning slammed his fist down on the desk he sat at. The two were now back at 221B, and the criminal in a matter of minutes had managed to find out all of both of the boys’ information. It was now all a matter of using it.

               “People like that,” James said in a dangerously quiet voice, “made my life a living _Hell_ , Sherlock. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you, either. Now _hunt_ them with me. They deserve it.”

               “They were young,” Sherlock pointed out.

               “They were old enough to know better!” James exclaimed incredulously, “You saw for yourself, those were _not_ children. They had to be at _least_ twenty.”

               Sherlock stared at James for a moment before finally saying, “What do you have in mind?”

               The criminal rolled his dark eyes, “I won’t kill them if you want. It’s more fun to scare them anyway.”

<br />

               _Name:_ _Joey Dyner_

_Sexuality: Likes girls_

_Relationship Status: Single_

               “Likes girls?” James grinned sadistically, “We’re going to have to change that, aren’t we?”

               “Change his status to ‘in a relationship,” Sherlock commanded.

               “Why?”

               “Say he’s with one of his friends.”

               “Oh, Sherlock,” James grinned as he typed, “I love it when you’re naughty.”

               “Now like a few new pages.”

               “How about Glee? And Lady GaGa, of course.”

               “Who’s Lady GaGa?” Sherlock asked.

               James stared at Sherlock in disbelief, before shaking his head and going back to hacking.

<br />

               _What the Hell?_ Joey could only stare at his screen, not believing what he was seeing. He was apparently in a relationship with some guy from his old school? Someone had changed all of his likes from Call of Duty and Red Bull to Glee and… cupcakes? He groaned at the 90 messages he’d already received, and decided to ignore them. His profile picture was no longer him in shades, posing against a brick wall. Instead, what he assumed was the gay pride flag replaced it.

               He was never going to be able to show his face outside again. Just as he began trying to undo what he assumed was the work of a hacker, he felt a small prick in his neck, and the world went dark.

<br />

               Joey moaned as he started coming to. His neck ached horribly, and when he opened his eyes his first thought was that he’d gone blind. He was just beginning to panic when he noticed a small bit of light coming through what looked like a window to the night sky. The blonde tried to move his arms, only to find that they, along with his legs and chest, were tied to the chair he sat in.

               It was like a nightmare.

               “What the fuck…” he wanted to sound intimidating and angry, if nothing else to reassure himself, but when his voice escaped him it shook and cracked.

               “Oh, good. Our little friend is awake,” a voice spoke out from the darkness. It sounded Irish and sent chills up Joey’s spine.

               “Who are you? Where am I? What do you want?” Joey was starting to panic, and he tugged at his restraints in the inky blackness. He heard footsteps, and stopped moving instantly.

               “Tell me, Joey-” the velvety voice spoke up again, this time sounding slightly closer.

               “How do you know my name?” Joey screeched.

               “Facebook, darling. I didn’t even need to hack _that_ part of it. You should _really_ change your privacy settings.”

               Joey wanted to vomit, “YOU did all that? Man, all these people hate me now, they think I’m a fagg-”

               “Yes, how horrible it must be to be judged on something you have no control over,” the voice had a razorblade edge to it now, and Joey fell silent, realizing what had happened.

               “Were you one of the-” His voice sounded truly terrified now, and from a far corner of the darkness, Sherlock felt a twinge of pity for the stupid boy.

               “One of the ‘fags’ you decided to call out on the street today? Yes. Darling, your vocabulary _screams_ commoner. Surely, you know that a fag is a type of cigarette, yes?”

               “Look, man, I’m really sorry-”

               “Sorry?” Joey suddenly felt something sharp, thin, and metallic pressed against his throat, and his heart nearly stopped. The voice was now right next to his ear, and he could feel someone’s breath on his neck. “No you’re not,” the voice whispered sadistically, “I could make you sorry. I could carve up that ugly little face of yours.”

               “Oh, _God_ ,” Joey whimpered, turning his head towards the ceiling and silently praying, “Please don’t rape me-”

               “THIS IS THE PROBLEM!” Joey’s heart started beating like mad as the voice started screaming. ( _Oh, God, he’s a psychopath. He’s going to wear my skin as a suit._ ) It nearly stopped, however, when he felt someone straddle him, still tracing what he assumed was a knife over his neck. The man’s breath was hot on his face, and to his surprise, the figure smelled of expensive cologne and mint.

               “If I wanted to rape you,” the man said in a whisper dripping with malice, “I would have had you ages ago, darling. But as it happens, I don’t find _pigs_ attractive.” As soon as he spat the last part out at him, the man got off of him, continuing to trace the knife on his neck.

               “Please, don’t hurt me,” Joey whimpered. He figured it was better to let the man do more of the talking.

               “ _Hurt_ you? What do you take me for? A common serial killer? No, honey I have people for that.”

               A chill ran up Joey’s spine, and the man chuckled.

               “Have I _scared_ you? My, my, it must be terrible to be helpless in the hands of another. So terrible…”

               “I’m sorry!” Joey called to the darkness, “What do you want?”

               “That’s the magic question!” the voice took on an almost childlike quality of excitement, “What I _want_ ,” it turned suddenly serious, “is for you to never, _ever_ call anyone what you called my partner and I today. Is that clear?”

               “Uh huh,” Joey swallowed nervously, “So you’ll let me go?”

               “If you’re telling the truth. Are you _lying_ to me?” the knife pressed into Joey’s throat.

               “N…no.”

               “Good!” the man sounded suddenly happy, “Now, do you remember what my partner and I looked like?”

               “Y…no.”

               “Ooh, good save. Well, how about this: if you decide to say anything, I’ll just have one of my snipers take care of you. Sound good?”

               “Yeah,” Joey wished his voice would stop quivering.

               “And since you’re already thinking of calling the police,” another deeper voice spoke up in the darkness, startling Joey- he wondered how many people were in the room, “You should know that a non-corrupt police force no longer exists.”

               “That may be a bit too complicated for him to understand, darling,” Joey could hear the smile in the Irishman’s voice as he spoke to the other man. He wondered if they were the exact pair he had seen on the streets earlier that day, “All he needs to know is that we’ll know if he decides to be a bad boy. And that if he is, then we’ll cut his pretty little throat out.”

<br />

               “You could have gone a little easier on them,” Sherlock pointed out once they were back in 221B, both boys (they had gone through the same process with the redhead after Joey) released.

               “Is that a complaint?” James asked coolly, raising an eyebrow.

               Sherlock smirked, “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda figured this would be a controversial chapter, so I suppose there are a few things I would like to clarify. James is in no way a social justice warrior. He’s a serial killer, for goodness’ sake. He does things because they provoke him personally, whether reminding him of troubled childhood or because he’s protective of Sherlock. Sherlock, if you’ll recall from His Last Vow, hates Magnussen because he ‘prays on people who are different’. In most situations like this, they would roll their eyes and walk away, or settle for a simple insult. Neither of them are heroes, and what they did in this chapter wasn’t heroic. And that doesn’t make what Joey did okay in any way. Anywho, just wanted to clarify that. R&R please! ^_^


	7. Love

John opened the door to the flat, trying to awkwardly balance the groceries at the same time.

               “Next time,” he called, “One of you two is going to get the milk…” John trailed off as he took in the scene before him. Sherlock and James had somehow managed to stuff themselves into a single armchair in front of the telly, and both had eyes firmly glued to the screen.

               He really didn’t know what to say.

               The detective and criminal continued to ignore his presence as gunshots were fired on screen.

               _“Sammy, no!”_

               _“Dean!”_

               “Imbecile,” James sneered at the screen in disgust.

               “Which one?” Sherlock drawled, eyes not leaving the screen.

               James smirked, “At least the tall one was smart enough to get into law school.”

               “Yes, but he has no concept of common sense,” Sherlock pointed out, “It’s _obviously_ not the wife; she has no connection to the victim.”

               “That’s what I said. Smart enough to get into law school,” James grinned arrogantly to himself.

               “I’m sorry, have you two heard anything I’ve said?” John asked incredulously.

               “Hello, John,” Sherlock finally said, slowly turning his head to face the doctor.

               John shook his head in disbelief, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of annoyance, “Aren’t you two supposed to be looking for cases?”

               “All boring,” Sherlock said, turning back towards the screen.

               “Oh, God,” John put a hand to his face, “I should have known it was a bad idea.”

               “What?” Sherlock asked.

               “Getting you into crap telly. You’ve got _him_ on it now, too.”

               James frowned, “I am not ‘on it’. This is horrendously made. It’s so predictable I could-”

               “That why you’ve watched five episodes straight?” Sherlock grumbled, sending goosebumps up the criminal’s arms.

               James licked his lips, “I will tolerate it with you.” Sherlock tried to control himself, but he couldn’t stop a small smile teasing the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t sure why, but he decided to pull James a bit closer to him.

               Oh, right. Sentiment. Sherlock couldn’t deny that he was becoming fond of many things he’d used to consider useless; like the simple pleasure of another person’s warmth against him. More specifically, James’s warmth against him.

               James was slightly surprised at first—the detective wasn’t prone to outbursts of affection, but he didn’t resist. He felt a small bit of tension come off of his shoulders as he leaned into the detective, giving his arm a quick squeeze.

               _“Sammy, I’ve gotta tell you something.”_

_“I don’t want to hear it, Dean.”_

_“NO! DON’T GIVE ME THAT!”_

“Ugh, when does he die again?” James grimaced.

               “Which time?” Sherlock asked.

               “They die more than _once_?” James raised his eyebrows in surprise. Perhaps this would be more intriguing than he’d initially thought.

               “Yes. He goes to Hell in the second or third season.”

               “Good,” James said with conviction.

               Sherlock didn’t say anything. No doubt, ‘Dean’ was reminding James simultaneously of his birth parents. The violent outbursts and the frequent drinking of alcohol were likely triggering of rather…unpleasant memories.

               “What about the tall one?” James suddenly asked. He knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking, and was determined to change the subject.

               “Hm?” Sherlock hummed.

               “What happens to him?”

               “You’ll have to watch and find out,” Sherlock teased monotonously.

               “How many seasons are there?”

               “Nine,” the detective said tonelessly.

               “ _Nine?_ ” James exclaimed, putting his face in his hands, “God help me…”

               “Would you like to stop?” Sherlock asked cheekily.

               “No,” James waved at him aimlessly, “Just keep going.”

               John listened to the exchange from the kitchen, and felt a strange heaviness growing inside him. He struggled with it for a few minutes, wondering, as he listened, what could possibly be causing it.

               As soon as he heard the exclamation from the other room, however, (‘Of _course_ she’s not the ghost! There’s 36 minutes left!’) he knew.

               Love. Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty were in love.

               He had never been able to see it before. He had always thought that Sherlock was a sort of pet for James, and that the criminal was an experiment for the detective. They were nothing more than each others’s entertainment in a world full of boring, ordinary people. However, he could no longer believe this was the case.

               It had started with little things. He’d notice Sherlock’s icy gaze thaw for a moment when James gave him that crocodile grin, or the criminal would give the detective a small squeeze of the hand as Sherlock flipped through a book or studied an experiment. Then things had escalated slightly. John now remembered the days when Sherlock had been completely disinterested in human contact as though they had happened eons ago. It seemed as though Sherlock had always been the type for hand holding, or sitting close enough to James that they seemed like the same person.

               The strangest thing about it, though, was that he was still _Sherlock_. Perhaps the reason the affection had passed right under John’s nose was because the detective was still _himself._ There had never _been_ a lovesick puppy faze. John almost expected one day for James to just leave and thank Sherlock for an ‘interesting experiment’.

               John knew he should feel happy for Sherlock. He knew that this should be a relief to him. That he could focus on himself instead of constantly worrying about the detective. However, this was not the case.

               John had a nagging feeling that he needed to keep a close eye on Sherlock. Perhaps it was because he worried about him deciding to join James. He knew the consulting criminal was still running his web, as did Sherlock. Did that mean that Sherlock didn’t see anything wrong with it? He didn’t know. How did James feel about them poking around London, where he arranged the crimes? John also didn’t know. He wondered if James _really_ felt the same way about Sherlock as Sherlock did for him. Every once in a while, as he lay awake at night, he would wonder if perhaps Sherlock was just like James, and he had never noticed it.

               Whatever the case with their relationship, something about it made John deeply saddened. He also knew there was nothing he could do about it. The earthshaking love that James and Sherlock seemed to feel for each other was something that all the demons of hell and all the angels of heaven couldn’t keep apart. And who was John, to stand in the way of love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Supernatural is an American show. Just pretend with me, please. I couldn’t resist.


	8. Lust

James grunted as Sherlock pushed him against the wall, pinning his arms before deciding his hands had better things to do. The detective held James by the shirt collar with one of his now freed hands and had the other laced in the criminal’s hair, making for a slightly less forceful position. James felt Sherlock’s muscles flexing through his shirt and felt a warmth growing in his lower abdomen.

               Yes, tonight would be the night.

               Of course, he and Sherlock had been intimate before, but Sherlock still was a technical ‘virgin’. Neither of them had truly ever found a pressure to change that until recently. The detective had started becoming increasingly persistent in his advances recently, and it didn’t take a genius to _deduce_ what it was he wanted. With John staying over at a girlfriend’s house for the night, it was the perfect opportunity for them to finally take the next step. Not that James really _cared_ if John knew what he and Sherlock did under cover of darkness. It was simply more intimate without an… intruder in the flat.

               “Sherlock…” James breathed into Sherlock’s kiss. The detective didn’t say anything, only a slight hum in return.

               Did the fool even realize what he was doing to James?

               The criminal broke away from the kiss slightly only to give the detective’s lower lip a harsh nip, actually causing a slight wince on the Sherlock’s part. James smirked, feeling the tense in muscles, even if he didn’t see the actual gesture.

               Suddenly, Sherlock found himself no longer kissing James. The two of them remained in the same position, breathing heavily, air thick with arousal, gazing into each other’s eyes. James’s eyes were black with desire; flames ignited in them that only two things could extinguish. One was sex, and the other was death.

               Actually, knowing James, death would probably only serve as more fuel.

               Sherlock licked his lips, realizing what was probably about to happen. He had done it unconsciously, without any thought whatsoever, but to James, the gesture was his own personal Hell. The detective needed to stop teasing him already.

               Sherlock’s eyes raked over James’s body, trying to take in as much data as possible. He wondered if the criminal could hear his heartbeat. He was sure he could.

               James, without breaking eye contact, gingerly reached towards Sherlock’s collar to undo the first button of his shirt. That _damn_ purple shirt. The criminal wasn’t sure whether or not he did it on purpose, but Sherlock always tended to wear it on days he was feeling more… forward. It was in the laundry often.

               Sherlock gritted his teeth, his cock already hardening with arousal at the mere ghost of James’s fingers across his chest.

               “Just rip it off,” he squeezed his eyes shut, head towards the ceiling. He looked as though he was being tortured.

               James tut tutted, “You,” he began softly, “Are going to suffer,” he undid another button, being sure to allow Sherlock to feel his hands through the fabric of his shirt, “As I have.”

               “Ugh!” Sherlock moaned loudly, “Don’t make me beg,” he spat, looking James in the eye again.

               “You never beg,” James undid another button, now a third of the way down the detective’s chest, “It’s one of the things distinctly frustrating about you.”

               How James was managing to speak in normal English at a time like this was a mystery to Sherlock. Whenever the criminal was this close to him, the detective found himself barely able to form sentences at Anderson’s level.

               Sherlock licked his lips, “Please?”

               For whatever reason, this made James extremely uncomfortable. He masked the emotion, however, grinning his trademark smile up at the detective, quickly undoing the rest of his buttons and sliding the garment off Sherlock’s shoulders as though he did it every day; which wasn’t entirely surprising. James gently led the detective towards the bed; one hand always remaining on him as Sherlock walked backwards and the criminal slowly laid him down on his back.

               The kissing began again, only this time, it was far more animalistic. Nails raked across skin and there was nowhere safe from James’s teeth. Sherlock all but ripped off the criminal’s expensive shirt, yet James found himself so helpless as to only give a mildly distraught ‘Mmf!’ in complaint.

               Soon, the both of them were completely naked, writhing together in what Sherlock was sure must be the pits of Hell, though outside it was a bitterly cold November night. Everything was on _fire_. Not that it was unpleasant; it was far from that. Despite the fact that Sherlock had difficulty thinking James was ‘evil’ in the traditional sense of the word, there was something about the criminal that always felt so deliciously _bad_. Perhaps it was the way his velvet tongue painted the canvas of his skin, or the fact that he moved in a way that made the detective believe he was with a king. Or perhaps this was an illusion caused by the hormones pulsing through his veins like morphine.

               Either way, he didn’t care. The detective happily mixed his own saliva with the venom that was James’s, moaning like a fool when the criminal ground his hips into Sherlock’s.

               “Wait,” James commanded, making as if to move off of the detective. Sherlock wanted to scream in protest.

               “No-” he snarled, trying to pull his lover back towards him, as though he hoped to merge their two bodies into one. He was silenced, however when he saw what James was doing.

               The criminal had grabbed, from a drawer in the nightstand, what could only be a bottle of lubricant. He made as though to return to kissing the detective, when he froze.

               James _knew_ Sherlock. He could read him like a book. He could always tell when something was off. And right now, something clearly was.

               The expression on the detective’s face had faded from initial confusion, to recognition, to what James could only categorize as poorly disguised fear.

               _Really?_ James marveled. He hadn’t considered this at all. They’d been together countless numbers of times. Sherlock of course had to know the mechanics of this. The criminal had assumed that this would be a relatively small step for the detective. A step, but a small one nonetheless. He didn’t want to say he felt pity… he would never feel pity for someone like Sherlock… rather it must have been… empathy?

               Sherlock was trying to cover up his hesitance, and was pulling James down on top of him again, but the criminal resisted.

               “You’re troubled,” James observed. Sherlock mentally cursed. _Why_ was the criminal so observant?

               “That’s ridiculous.”

               “Don’t lie.”

               The two stared for a moment.

               “Do you want to?” James broke the silence, speaking with authority.

               “Of course I-”

               “Sherlock,” James eyes bore a hole into the detective, “Do you want to?”

               A long pause. Sherlock licked his lips, not sure how to put what he wanted to say.

               “…Teach me,” he finally said. He was normally content to lead intimate affairs, but it seemed that, just as with the first time he and James had ever been close, the criminal was going to have to take control.

               James’s gaze was soft as down as his eyes studied Sherlock, gently pushing the detective down onto his back once more. The detective closed his eyes with a slightly impatient sigh, half wishing that they could go back to the rough loving they had exercised before.

               Occasionally, it would happen that Sherlock forgot what it was like for James to lead things. When the detective was in charge there were arms pinned down, possessive bites covering both bodies in a matter of minutes, hair being pulled and constant desperation to get impossibly closer. It left both of them exhausted and breathless, tasting slight iron and feeling powerful. It was dangerous, and it was passionate, and both of them could never get enough of it. However, James reminded Sherlock that there was another way passion could be performed. The criminal almost always followed Sherlock’s lead, and gave him whatever _he_ desired; in fact, the only time James had led before, now that Sherlock thought of it, was the first time they had ever been intimate; in the silence of night, trying not to wake John.

               The way James loved him was… unique. The detective was amazed at the _gentleness_ of his touch. The criminal was able to do more to Sherlock with chaste kisses and slow traces over skin than with the frantic bites and digging nails he offered to Sherlock when the detective led. It _slowly_ escalated, and that made it all the more erotic. Sherlock was the _only_ person James had loved like this, and the only one he likely ever would, and it made the detective slightly smug. He had _this_ all to himself. Not even the criminal’s past lovers had been allowed this privilege- James had said himself that they were boring, which meant one thing- lack of passion. James was able to address his inexperience in a _dignified_ way; not offering frantic reassurance or, god forbid, _advice_ , as most people would. He _taught_ Sherlock. The criminal’s body on top of his own, slowly kissing him, was all the reassurance the detective needed to know that James would be a good teacher.

               The criminal finally broke their kiss, moving to offer small bites and sucks to Sherlock’s neck. The detective moaned quietly and tangled a hand in James’s hair. He let out a small gasp as a hand lowered to his crotch, starting to palm him.

               James broke away from the detective’s porcelain skin for a moment to move his mouth to the center of his chest, kissing his way upwards until they were face to face once more. The criminal’s eyes were blackened with lust once more, but this time, rather than flame, Sherlock was reminded of deep water.

               “Say you love me,” James said in a husky voice, sending a rush of blood to the detective’s already erect cock. The criminal had returned to their original position once more, bruising Sherlock’s lips with desire as he ground their hips together.

               “I love you,” Sherlock breathed against James’s lips, and a ghost of a smile passed over the criminal’s lips as he pulled away. The detective watched as James deftly coated a finger in lubricant, slightly apprehensive.

               Sherlock gasped as he suddenly felt a wet coldness inside of him. He tried to force himself to get used to the feeling, and to instead focus on James’s reinstated kisses on his chest. He grunted, slightly uncomfortable.

               “Relax,” James scolded against the detective’s skin. Sherlock breathed in and forced himself to sink down onto the bed slightly.

               “Good…” the criminal’s voice had an almost musical lilt to it. Sherlock didn’t know why until he felt the faded coldness replaced by another of equal intensity. He definitely felt full now.

               The detective groaned as James raked his teeth across his skin, picking up the intensity of his movements. Sherlock felt himself getting impossibly harder as the criminal finally slipped a third finger inside of him.

               “God…” the detective breathed, getting extremely hot again.

               “It’s James,” he heard the criminal growl, palming Sherlock’s cock, other hand still half inside of the detective.

               Sherlock could only moan in response as he dug his nails into James’s back, feeling movement inside of him. The criminal didn’t move his fingers in and out as slowly as he could have, and the detective arched his back as he felt a sudden jolt of pleasure. James, seeming to enjoy teasing the detective, withdrew his fingers as soon as this occurred, grabbing the bottle of lubricant again. Sherlock became far more aware of the fact that he was naked as soon as the criminal’s fingers were out of him.

               “Do that again,” the detective ordered, far too late.

               “I will,” James said blandly. He quickly prepared himself before lining himself up at the detective’s entrance. Sherlock instinctively wrapped his legs around his partner, and groaned far louder than was decent as soon as the criminal was inside of him. Dimly, he wondered if Mrs. Hudson could hear them.

               He was suddenly quite happy that John wasn’t home.

               They began to move together; slowly at first, but quickly finding a good rhythm and picking up speed. Sherlock got over the pain far quicker than he’d imagined he would and soon was struggling to find profanities suitable enough to express his current feelings.

               James struck his prostate especially hard and Sherlock threw his pride to the wind in favor of a moan he couldn’t have dreamed of suppressing.

               “James…fu-… _please_ …” Sherlock begged for the criminal to repeat the action.

               Feeling a bit sadistic just then, James stopped moving, wanting to hear the detective beg again. Instead, he got a string of profanities and threats that would have given some of his henchmen a run for their money. He smirked before continuing his movements harder and faster than ever, and Sherlock found himself closer to the edge, his cock almost aching for relief. He clawed at James’s skin, trying in some way, _any way_ to coherently tell the criminal he was close.

               “Sherlock…” James moaned as he thrust. Both of them were close, then.

               Finally, Sherlock couldn’t control himself any longer and lost control, coming all over himself and collapsing with exhaustion onto the bed. This sight was apparently too much for James, who hastily pulled out, barely in time for his orgasm. Most of the criminal’s cum got on Sherlock, who in his state of ecstasy never had a thought of cleanliness strike his mind. Not that they did on a normal day, anyway.

               James supported his entire weight with his arms, hair soaked with sweat falling into his face as he gazed down at Sherlock with brown eyes.

               The detective stared back. He’d forgotten how to formulate sentences. He didn’t think he’d ever come so hard as he just did, and was still in a slight state of shock.

               James licked his lips, surveying his work slightly as he lay down next to his lover, starting to steady his breathing. Sherlock was beginning to notice exactly how much they both reeked of sex. It wasn’t… unpleasant, either.

               The detective, despite being completely exhausted, leaned over to James and gave the criminal a gentle, chaste kiss on the forehead. The flat was so silent that they could have heard a pin drop, and both men were starting to feel a slight chill on their naked skin.

               “We ought to do things your way more often,” Sherlock finally broke the silence.

               “My way?” James frowned, “Sherly, we both get a say, every time we do this.”

               “Mm.”

               Silence again. Sherlock felt a need to break it once more; he suddenly felt like asking James a thousand questions.

               “I pity Mrs. Hudson,” the detective said.

               James snorted, amused, “Honey, I pity _Mycroft,_ the way you were carrying on.”

               “Good,” Sherlock said deeply, “Maybe then he’ll stop calling me a virgin.”

               James smirked, remembering when he’d used to do the same, “Darling, you are definitely _not_ a virgin.” His eyes raked over Sherlock’s filthy body.

               The detective smirked, “I doubt John’s sex was as gratifying.”

               James gave his partner a look of disgust, “They probably were both asleep after five minutes.”

               Sherlock chuckled, absently tracing the scars on James’s shoulder nearest to him. The criminal watched him intently.

               “Do you remember when you gave me those?”

               Sherlock licked his lips, “I try not to.”

               James snuggled closer to the detective to fight off the chill, soft skin offering him comfort as he breathed in Sherlock’s familiar scent, laced with sex. He felt a familiar warmth inside of his chest as he closed his eyes, peacefully lying with his lover.

               “I love you,” James said deeply, feeling sleep creeping into the corners of his mind, regardless of the fact that neither of them had any blankets on.

               Sherlock sighed contentedly, “I love you, too.”


	9. Snow

Fluffy spots of white floated down from the empty gray sky as two men made their way through an empty park. It seemed as though all of London had fallen silent, just so that they could have a conversation in peace. Cabs still made their way through the streets not far away, but to the detective and the criminal it seemed a different planet. On a quiet December Sunday, they were the only two people in the world.

               Sherlock glanced over at James as they walked. Even with snowflakes gently falling to rest in his slicked back hair, to most people he would still look intimidating. The criminal seemed to silently judge the snow as his dark eyes raked over the blanket of white.

               Neither attempted to make small talk. They were content with the silence. It was a blessing to get a chance to think alone together, with no rush or interruptions. Both usually liked to keep busy, but they had to admit, peace wasn’t a horrible feeling, either.

               “It’s quiet,” James finally said. Sherlock balked at the simple statement. James never said things so obvious.

               “Isn’t it hateful?” Sherlock sneered, only half serious.

               “It’s nice,” James replied offhandedly, still deep in thought. His eyes were fixed in the distance, as though he was waiting for someone.

               Sherlock was growing increasingly confused as to why James was so sentimental today. They had only just finished a case; was he bored already?

               Instead of asking about the criminal’s strange behavior, Sherlock settled for a different response, “I suppose so,” he said gently. The detective looked up at the sky as he walked for a few paces, letting snowflakes land on his eyelashes. The tiny pricks of cold reminded him of Mycroft, and with a pang he almost found himself missing his brother. He remembered building snowmen, when they were very young, before things had gotten complicated with drugs and rivalry. Sherlock decided on a whim to share this memory with James.

               He sighed, “Do you know what this reminds me of?”

               James frowned as he turned to study Sherlock, “What?” His eyes still looked distant.

               “Mycroft. He and I used to make snowmen, when it was like this.”

               “Shocking.”

               Sherlock persisted, “We used to make them look like pirates.”

               James forced a chuckle, “Actual pirate Sherlock Holmes.” It could have sounded light, had he wanted it to. Instead his voice escaped him sounding dark and bitter.

               “Redbeard used to always piss on them. It made Mycroft so angry,” Sherlock continued.

               “Your dog’s name was Redbeard?” James asked incredulously, not needing to confirm that Sherlock was, in fact, speaking of a dog.

               “Naturally.”

               James looked away again. He didn’t need to hear about fond childhood memories. The conversation died as though it had been covered in the ever increasing blanket of snow.

               “It was today, wasn’t it?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

               “What was?” James decided to play stupid. God, he hated being so transparent, even for Sherlock.

               “Your sister. Mary.”

               James didn’t stop walking, he only looked Sherlock in the eyes for a long, intense moment before nodding slightly and going back to staring off into space. He looked so young to the detective, so lost. He had never really felt a need to protect James before, or comfort him, but for once he was tempted to wrap his arms around the criminal and tell him it would be fine.

               Obviously, that would do nothing to ease his pain.

               The two continued to walk in silence for another five minutes, making their way out of the park towards the streets of London. James tried to ignore the motionless, bloody toddler he saw everywhere he looked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it’s shorter this time. Much shorter. I didn’t think it really needed the extra length, though. Sometimes angst is better without too much explanation. I hope you guys remember James’s sister from The Mighty Fall? Or at least the story behind her? Message me if you want a summary, or just skim through the second half of the first story if you forgot, because this is going to be an important theme. I hope you enjoyed! R&R, and I’ll see you later!


	10. Bows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TW for mentions of self harm.

Sherlock’s fingers deftly slid over the red and white paper, expertly creasing with minimal waste of tape or paper. Tiny flakes of snow blew past the windows of 221B, almost giving the impression that it was misting outside. The shiny wrapping paper was a beacon of color in contrast to the dullness of a London winter, and James found his eyes constantly wandering away from his laptop to watch the detective work.

               Sherlock pretended to ignore the criminal’s gaze, keeping his eyes on his work. However, James could tell that whenever he looked over, the detective tended to crease the paper a bit more firmly, faltering ever so slightly in his efforts to conceal a proud smirk. The criminal thought it was, actually, quite adorable.

               “Sherlock,” James finally couldn’t control himself anymore. The detective looked up from his work innocently. “I hope you know that I can see what you’re doing.”

               The detective frowned, “I am wrapping a Christmas gift for John, James. I thought it would be obvious to someone of your level of awareness.”

               James smirked as he answered, “No,” he said mischievously, “That’s not what I mean.”

               Sherlock raised his eyebrows, staring down his challenger, “Really? Enlighten me.”

               “You, my friend,” James grinned, “Have a praise fetish.”

               Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in disbelief, “Do not!” This was truly an outrageous claim. He most certainly did not have a ‘praise fetish’.

               “Yes, you do,” James was positively beaming, eyes alight.

               “Do not!” Sherlock further protested.

               “I’m certain,” James said slyly, turning back to his laptop.

               Sherlock frowned as he turned back to John’s gift. He grabbed a gift tag and had just begun writing on it when James stole another sideways glance in his direction. This time, the detective caught himself unconsciously slowing his penmanship, and huffed in irritation as the criminal smirked. Or, at least, Sherlock thought James _must_ have been smirking. He could practically taste it in the air.

               “Shut up,” the detective snapped, glaring at James.

               “I didn’t say anything!” the criminal protested innocently.

               “I do not have a ‘praise fetish’,” Sherlock spat.

               “Of course you don’t,” James agreed smugly, “That’s a lovely wrapping job, by the way.” The criminal nodded towards the gift.

               “Don’t _bait me_ ,” Sherlock sneered, shaking his head in disbelief.

               “Oh, take the compliment. You know you want to,” James pointed out, “And I’m being sincere. It is quite good.”

               Sherlock, pushing the previous banter from his mind, carefully picked up the box, eyeing it up and down for imperfections at every possible angle, “Yes, I think so,” he said as he did this, “My thoughts precisely.”

               James snorted as the detective put the box down, raising an eyebrow, “Don’t get too cocky, Sherly, it’s unbecoming of you.”

               Sherlock had opened his mouth to retort when he noticed a slight dimming of the light in James’s eyes. When he followed the direction of the criminal’s gaze, he fought the urge to sigh. James seemed to pick up on this, and his gaze shifted from the slightly visible, faded scars on the detective’s arms, to his face.

               “James-” Sherlock began.

               “I wish you would _tell_ me,” James interrupted, eyes pleading. He got up from where he sat so that he was standing parallel to the detective.

               Sherlock indulged in an eye roll, “We’ve been over this before. The drugs, parents, Mycroft-”

               “That’s not _specific_ , Sherlock.”

               “It’s no longer of importance!” the detective exclaimed incredulously, “Why does it matter what _specific instance_ first made me pick up the blade?”

               “Because I want to help you!” James’s voice was growing desperate now.

               “No, you don’t,” Sherlock said with sudden conviction. He knew what was happening here.

               Silence.

               “How can you say that?” James asked quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. He looked wounded.

               “James, you and I are perceptive,” Sherlock explained calmly, “of everyone but ourselves. You see my old scars and think it’s your job to ‘save me’, because-”

               “Because why?” the criminal challenged, interrupting his partner. His eyes had small flames kindled within them.

               “-because _you_ want help,” the detective finished softly. His usually icy eyes weren’t looking like themselves today.

               James was perplexed by the idea offered, taking a few seconds to process. His gaze grew duller and his brow furrowed as he protested weakly, “Sherlock, I don’t _need-_ ”

               “Don’t lie,” the detective commanded.

               James’s gaze hardened slightly, “It was a long time ago. _I_ never mutilated myself, _I_ never-”

               “How long,” Sherlock began, “is it going to take before you tell me?” James, for whatever reason, was suddenly aware of how much taller the detective was than him.

               The criminal crossed his arms, “A very…long time,” he refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. James licked his lips nervously as he crossed the room to where the wrapping supplies were piled on a table. He selected a long silken ribbon from the mess and returned to where the detective stood, blue gaze sharp enough to draw blood.

               Sherlock reluctantly allowed James to tie the ribbon at the base of his wrist, covering up two of the white lines carved into the detective’s arm. The criminal was extremely gentle; hands feeling feather-light on Sherlock’s skin, but the detective wanted desperately to pull away. He knew James was suppressing something. He knew that there was something eating the criminal up inside. Sherlock knew about Mary, so why could James not tell him about this? Was he afraid the detective would leave him? He had to know, even through a veil of emotion, that that was impossible. Perhaps it was because it was worse than the incident with his sister? And, if so, was James the one at fault? He suspected it had to do with childhood; why else would he be so interested in Sherlock’s? He knew James cared, but he also knew that the fixation on what caused his self harm in his teenage years was more than a lover’s concern. The criminal likely wanted to find similarity. He was hoping that he would hear Sherlock’s story and would feel less alone about whatever happened to _him_ in those years. The detective already knew James had been a frequent target for bullies, but could that really cause such a severe twisting of the psyche? Most likely, but Sherlock was willing to admit even to himself that he was no psychologist, and the only way for him to be sure of what had happened to the criminal was the old fashioned way.

               James gazed up at the detective with soft brown eyes, thumb tracing back and forth over a single scar. Sherlock gazed back coldly, telling his lover with his eyes that he wasn’t done prying. Most would see depth in the look James was currently throwing at him, but the detective knew better. This was a thin yet firm veil, hiding secrets that even Sherlock wasn’t sure he could reach.

               The criminal nodded slightly, looking down at the floor, as though agreeing to nonexistent words. He glanced back towards the bright box that seemed to drain color from everything else in the room, releasing Sherlock’s hand.

               “I’m sure John will love it, Sherly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I wasn’t sure about this chapter when I came up with the idea, but I really like how this turned out. Self harm is a touchy topic, and I wanted to make sure that I didn’t make it seem like romanticizing it was a good thing. I know what happened to James is fuzzy right now, and I intended it that way. Though I think if you read close enough you might(?) see vaguely in the direction I’m going with it. Also, I feel a need to remind you guys that Sherlock’s parents aren’t at all close to canon in this, since I wrote it them as negligent in Mighty Fall way before season 3 came out. Anywho, R&R, and I’ll see you soon!


	11. Treat

“Sherlock.”

“…”

               “Sherlock?”

               “…”

               James rolled his eyes, “Sherlock!”

               The detective finally raised his gaze from the countertop to meet eyes with the criminal, who was sat at the desk in the living room, looking rather irritated.

               “That is a tablespoon, not a teaspoon.”

               Sherlock scoffed, “How could you _possibly_ have noticed that from over there?”

               “I have 20/20 vision and I live to point out your mistakes,” James answered caustically, “If you’re going to do this, do it right.”

               Sherlock sighed, feeling a need to justify himself, “I would have figured it out.”

               “I’m certain.”

               Sherlock frowned, sharp gaze moving back towards the recipe he was sure he had read over ten times.

               He had deleted what the initial conversation had been about, but at some point, it had led to James telling him he couldn’t cook to save his life. What could he say? He had been bored already, and the criminal had told him he would go easier on his next target if he could make something satisfactory.

               God, he was happy John couldn’t see this. Sherlock didn’t know _why_ this was so difficult for him. It was like reading some sort of twisted chemical formula—the ingredients were all there, but he had no knowledge of what properties each possessed or what their role would be in the reaction. He simply had to take the recipe as gospel, and that in itself was terrifying. He pitied James’s victim.

               _Cream butter and sugar in a mixing bowl until uniform._ That seemed easy enough.

               But… did that constitute use of all of the sugar? Was the recipe referring to both brown and white sugar? What state was the butter supposed to be in? Was it supposed to be cold? Melted? Room temperature? Was the recipe _not_ supposed to inform him of this? Was it just ‘common knowledge’ as John would say, what state the butter was supposed to be in?

               “Ooh, Sherly, I’ve just had a naughty idea,” James called mirthfully from the living room.

               Sherlock’s inner turmoil paused to allow him to deal with the smug criminal.

               “Have you decided on a means of assassination, yet?” he asked casually.

               “How do you feel about lions?” James grinned sadistically, dark eyes glittering.

               “Bit flashy.”

               “For me? Or for your average neighborhood serial killer?”

               Sherlock smirked, “Both.”

               James frowned. He was _not_ ordinary. He got up and strode into the kitchen, exaggerating his movements as he leaned forward on the counter, as though to watch the detective work.

               “Are you going to watch, now?”

               “Oh yes,” James grinned.

<br />

               “Sherlock, it said _cream_ the butter and sugar together!”

               “What the hell do you think I’m doing?” the detective snapped, mixer whirring.

               “You’re whipping it!” James exclaimed.

               “What’s the bloody difference?”

               James closed his eyes in irritation, having discarded thoughts of their earlier bet. It was _agonizing_ watching Sherlock do so many things incorrectly. Looking back on it, he took for granted how extraordinary the detective usually was in his intelligence. He missed it sorely, now.

               “There’s a different extension for creaming,” the criminal explained calmly, switching the mixer off. He had a sudden craving to solve a case. Or arrange a murder. Or do anything that wasn’t as domestic as this.

               “How in _hell_ does the extension make a difference?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

               James frowned, “I don’t know, it just does!”

               “Well _I_ think it’s a marketing technique to get people to buy more unnecessary, overpriced extension pieces for their electric mixers.” He switched the device back on and James covered his face with a hand.

 

<br />

               “Is this ‘uniform’?” Sherlock asked James, switching the mixer off again.

               James examined the mixture of sugar and fat, “Looks to be. What’s next?”

               Sherlock craned his head to look at the recipe, “Beat one medium egg into mixture.”

               James grabbed an egg from the carton they had set out with the rest of the ingredients, and was about to crack it into the bowl when Sherlock stopped him.

               “Is that a medium egg?”

               “Pardon?” James frowned.

               “The recipe calls for a medium egg. Is that ‘medium’ in relation to the typical size of a chicken egg?”

               James took a moment before speaking, “…Yes, Sherlock dear. I am sure this egg will suffice.” His voice was coated in sugar.

               Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he took the egg from James, “No need to get touchy.”

               “I am not ‘touchy’!” James protested.

               “Of course.”

               James had to fight down the urge to stab something.

<br />

               “That is not one inch apart.”

               “James, this ensures maximum capacity.”

               “Yes, but they’re going to get stuck together!”

               “Who cares?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. James’s obsession with organization was starting to remind him of Mycroft.

               “I care!” James exclaimed.

               “They’re _cookies_ , James. They are not necessary for nutrition nor are they for decoration. Just _don’t eat them_.”

               “It’s not about _eating them_ , Sherlock. It’s about doing a satisfactory job!”

               “Why does it matter?”

               James glared at the detective, “Why does ‘maximum capacity’ matter? We’re not on a time-crunch.”

               “Fine, I’ll move them apart. Happy?”

               “No,” James huffed.

               “How’s the operation gladiator going?” Sherlock reminded James of the crime he was supposed to be working on.

               “Oh, shut up.” James didn’t need Sherlock reminding him that he was avoiding his work to play Iron Chef with the detective. In fact, if he asked himself why he was still in the kitchen, he couldn’t come up with a single logical answer. Besides, of course, the fact that he was weak and would seize any opportunity to be around the detective.

               The criminal sighed, watching as Sherlock moved the balls of dough farther apart. Sometimes he asked himself why he had allowed himself to sink this low. And then he’d see Sherlock grin and he would ask himself why he bothered to question it.

<br />

               “James?”

               “What?”

               “We shouldn’t eat these.”

               “Oh, for God’s sake. What did you do?”

               A smirk was playing at the detective’s lips, “You see this?” He lifted up the half full bag of sugar.

               “…Yes.”

               “This isn’t sugar.”

               “Oh my God, Sherlock…”

               Sherlock’s form shook with laughter as he lifted up what looked to be a small handmade label in his other hand.

               James shook his head, “Sherlock, you _really_ need to get organized.”

               “This was an isolated incident, James. The label fell off. How was I supposed to know-”

               “THAT THERE WAS POISON IN THE BAG OF SUGAR?”

               “…Yes.”

               James could do nothing but stand there, staring at Sherlock incredulously.

               The detective couldn’t contain his laughter anymore, he doubled over, barely able to breathe.

               “Sherlock,” James tried to get his attention. He didn’t see the humor in this. On any given day, he could have overlooked the label and killed himself sweetening his tea. This was no laughing matter.

               “Your _face_ …” Sherlock could barely get the two words in before he dissolved into chuckles again.

               “Sherlock,” James felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

               “I know, I know,” Sherlock laughed, “We should probably get these out of the oven before we asphyxiate ourselves.”

               James shook his head, “Doofus. I need a good triple murder, is what I need.”

               “Cookie?” Sherlock held out the baking tray in response with a maniacal grin.

               “Merry Christmas, darling,” James grinned, walking away.

               “Does this mean someone’s getting eaten by lions tonight?” Sherlock called after him.

               A happy snort was all he got in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, yay ^_^ Twisted Sherlock and James fluff, double yay. I don’t know any good poisons that could pass for sugar, so that’s left to your imagination. I tried google, but I’d hate to be a suspected killer or something for googling stuff like that. Sigh, the trials of a writer. Anyways, hope you enjoyed.


	12. Cocoa

“I can’t believe you,” John scolded Sherlock, shaking his head.

               “When _can_ you?” the detective countered. He, John, and James were standing just outside of the crime scene, the criminal and Sherlock holding portable hot chocolate close to keep warm.

               “Sherlock, you stopped for _hot cocoa_ on your way to tell Lestrade!” the doctor exclaimed. His complaint obviously included James, but the two usually made a point to tiptoe around each other when it came to disagreements such as this.

               The detective rolled his eyes, “We calculated the amount of time it would take, and it would in no way have affected the case. Everything is still solved.”

               “And, we were cold,” James added when John remained silent. The doctor’s mouth had fallen open. He couldn’t believe Sherlock would be this irresponsible. Who gave a damn what ‘calculations’ he had made? If _one thing_ had been off in timing, people could have died. John had a sinking feeling the detective would never have done this if James hadn’t been with him.

               “Look, you two,” he addressed the couple, “This,” he pointed to the ground, “is real life. Hm? It’s not a romance novel. It’s not cute what you did. People could have died.”

               James rolled his eyes, “That’s what people _do_ , Johnny.” His voice was still ridiculously content, and it angered John even further. He turned to Sherlock for help.

               The detective met his eyes guiltily, though John could have sworn there was something colder than usual in them. Perhaps that was just his imagination.

               “No, James,” Sherlock didn’t break eye contact with the doctor, “John is right. It was irresponsible.”

               James’s eyes darkened, though he kept his composure completely. The look he gave John was unreadable. The doctor would almost describe it as smug.

               Or an ‘I’m going to use your bones as toothpicks’ look. John still remembered the threat James had given him after he had first discovered the affair between criminal and detective. He wondered how much it would take for James to follow up on it.

               “Sherlock,” James grinned at his lover, exaggerating his movements as he grabbed the detective’s hand possessively, “You’re lucky to have an angel on your shoulder.” John wanted to vomit. Then again, he wanted to vomit whenever he heard the criminal’s sickly sweet voice.

               “Sherlock!” Anderson waved to them from a few meters away before striding over the where the group stood. He held a small envelope in his hand.

               “Detective Lestrade wants to thank you for your help, as usual” he said when he finally reached them.

               “Thanks, Anderson,” Sherlock’s voice held no emotion as he took his paycheck from the scraggly man.

               “Do you ever wonder what goes on in their funny little brains?” James asked once Anderson was out of earshot.

               Sherlock smirked when he saw the look on John’s face, “Every day.”

               John shook his head indignantly, “You two do know that I can _hear you_ , right?”

               James’s mouth twitched upward into a smirk. John suddenly wondered if the criminal and Sherlock bashed ‘ordinary’ people on a regular basis. Was he included in that group? He knew for James he was, but did Sherlock agree with the criminal? John scolded himself for jumping to conclusions. This was _Sherlock_ he was thinking of. His best friend. James was an entirely different equation.

               “Apologies, John,” Sherlock smiled at his friend. John had to say, he couldn’t remember a time before James had come along when he would see such warmth in his eyes regularly. Perhaps there was something good that came with the detective being in love. In love with a serial killer, yes, but still in love.

               “Right, well, I’ll talk to you later. I told Sarah I’d come over after the case was finished,” John nodded to Sherlock and made eye contact with James, who seemed to be taking him apart with his eyes, as though trying to calculate something.

               Silence fell for a moment between the detective and the criminal as they watched John leave. James foolishly took a sip of his hot cocoa when he overheard Anderson talking to Sally Donovan.

               “And then I said, what’s the _point_ of buying cheese if you’re not even going to _use_ it!” Forced laughter from Donovan followed this.

               James, however, nearly choked on his drink from laughter. Sherlock fought back a smirk as his partner coughed, eventually unable to stop a small snicker from escaping him. James was still doing a poor job of concealing his laughter when Donovan and Anderson turned to glare at the two consultants.

               “Have I ever told you,” James could hardly breathe from laughter, “how much I love you?”

               Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had seen James laugh so hard—if there had ever been a time in the first place.

               “On numerous occasions, yes, incidentally,” he answered as James calmed down.

               “Good, God, can you imagine having to listen to _that_ all day?” the criminal marveled.

               “Pfft,” Sherlock scoffed, “That’s what I deal with with John.”

               James thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock was bad at perceiving emotional reactions.


	13. Deny

Sherlock’s fingers flew across his phone screen, tapping the digital letters as quickly as humanly possible before pressing send.

               Of _course_ it had been the aunt. All of the signs had pointed to it. There always seemed to be one little deduction he couldn’t get right. It was infuriating. John said it made him human. James would tease him playfully about it. He wasn’t sure which of their responses irked him more.

               The detective breathed out in a huff, staring at John’s name on his phone impatiently. James hadn’t been able to participate in this case with them, and while Sherlock loved being on cases alone with John, the doctor had seemed…different in his presence lately. He guiltily pondered what James was doing in his absence as he watched the fog his breath created in the cold night air. Leaning back against the rough brick of the building behind him, Sherlock debated, in a moment of sudden loneliness, whether or not he should call the criminal. It was disturbing that John wasn’t texting him back, and perhaps James could figure out a quick way to find the doctor, if he was in trouble.

               “He’s not going to text you back, you know,” a familiar Irish voice sounded out from the darkness surrounding Sherlock. It echoed in the blackness.

               Sherlock’s heartbeat suddenly picked up, as it always did when James was around. Though in the dark of the London night, it was difficult to tell if it was from instinctual fear or anticipation.

               “I could have used your help on this one,” Sherlock gave a coy sideways glance at his lover, now in plain sight and illuminated slightly by faraway streetlights.

               James wasn’t fazed by the flirting. Instead his heart gave a strange ache as he pushed emotion aside for the time being. It was better this way. He felt as cool as the surrounding night air; a statue, forever trapped in the same place, the same problem.

               “You seemed to do just fine on your own,” Sherlock felt his playful mood vanish like smoke as he noted the edge to James’s voice. He and the criminal had never really argued before—was this what John always complained about in his emails? What had he done?

               “…Where is John?” Sherlock was suddenly serious as he asked the weighted question. He in actuality was quite concerned that his friend was taking so long to text back.

               James felt a shard of ice pierce through his heart. _John, John, John… It was always John._

               “On the phone with his girlfriend,” the criminal said it indifferently, as icily as he possibly could, trying to keep down the horrible lump in his throat. It was better this way.

               “What?” Sherlock’s voice rang in the darkness, suddenly angry, “We were on a case! How was I supposed to know that nothing happened to-”

               “I know it’s upsetting, _darling_ , that he didn’t text you back within five minutes, but sometimes we need to grow up,” James remained stony faced.

               Sherlock realized then what was going on, “Oh… I see.”

               “And what do you see?” James challenged.

               “James… John and I are platonic friends, you don’t need to worry about-”

               James gave a strange chuckle. He sounded like a teacher humoring a student.

               “Sherlock, I’m not _jealous_ of John,” James felt his flawless mask of arrogant amusement spread across his face, and relished the confusion on Sherlock’s.

               “Then what…?”

               “Sherlock,” James strode forward a few paces, until he stood, oddly stiff, directly in front of Sherlock, “This is about growing up.”

               Sherlock could already tell he wouldn’t like where this was going. Where was James’s usual flirtatiousness? His sardonic sense of humor? God, he was sounding like _Mycroft_ …

               “Oh?” the detective’s tone was now slightly more clipped.

               “Sherlock, when I said I love you I… was slightly blinded by… certain factors…” James looked at the brick wall beside them.

               Sherlock remained silent.

               “…And I’m hoping that you, as an adult, can also see why this may have happened.”

               No response from Sherlock. James sighed.

               “I don’t love you, Sherlock,” when the criminal raised his eyes to meet the others’, he saw that now the detective was looking away, staring into the street.

               “I hope you understand,” James finished curtly. Finally, Sherlock turned his head to look at him.

               “Of course I do,” he said in a perfectly smooth tone, all business. This wasn’t happening. How many times had James told him he loved him? It had to be over three now. Did they all mean nothing? No, that seemed _impossible_ …

               “Good. Buy Johnny a nice dinner for me, will you?”

               With that, James turned swiftly on his heel and walked off into the blackness. He ignored the rising nausea in his throat, the urge to scream, the urge to kill John for taking Sherlock away…

               It had to be this way. Of course it did. Emotions were a liability—hadn’t he learned that a long time ago? Yet here he was, back in primary school, learning to repress them for the first time.

               Sherlock clutched his hands together to keep them from shaking, attempting to calculate how far James was from him by now. Suddenly, everything came rushing at him at once and he couldn’t think about numbers anymore. He slumped against the bricks and slowly sunk to the ground, choking back sobs. He knew that James would only shake his head in disgust if he saw. If _Sherlock_ had seen himself this way, he would have done the same.

               Was this it, then? Was James leaving him? It certainly seemed like it. _He doesn’t love me_ … Sherlock thought. Had he been correct in his initial deductions when James had kissed him for the first time? Was this all truly just a game to the criminal? If so, could he and John ever go back to the way they had been before James had come into the picture? And what of all the information he had given away?

               No. James had given information as well. Sincere information. Sherlock knew that the criminal had meant it. Was this a true breakup, then? James was leaving for his own reasons? What the bloody hell had he done wrong? Sherlock felt a sudden violent surge of anger against the criminal, against John, against everyone.

               _Love_. No word had ever been so insignificant. He couldn’t even try to begin to think of safety concerns if he and James were no longer allies, because the only thing that mattered was that he didn’t.

               John had a girlfriend, and James was gone. As Sherlock stuffed a fist in his mouth to stifle his cries, he felt completely, utterly alone as he sat in the empty blackness.


	14. Spectre

Sherlock didn’t know if he was going mad, or if this was how everyone felt when they were in love.

               Ever since James had left him, it seemed the criminal _followed_ him. Of course, he knew it wasn’t in a physical sense; that was impossible. It had started with little things. Sherlock would be getting dressed and all of a sudden James would be there.

               _Wear the purple shirt, Sherlock_. _That one looks nice on you_.

               It had come to Sherlock’s attention that this was probably just his own way of remembering comments James had made, or little things he noticed about the criminal. However, sometimes James wasn’t so innocent.

               _Sherlock, kiss me._

The detective would feel the ghost of James’s fingers tracing over his skin, feel his hot breath on his neck the same way he had many nights ago. It sometimes took all of his willpower not to allow his body to betray him. This had a habit of happening more at night. The detective could no longer sleep normally without James’s warmth beside him. Even before they had been together, Sherlock had slept better than this. If he _did_ manage to lose consciousness, it was a restless sleep, plagued by the criminal’s phantom moans. He wasn’t even tempted to delete the remembered sounds from his mind palace because, if he was honest with himself, he liked hearing them when he was alone. It was a reminder of what they had shared together, and while it hurt, the detective almost enjoyed the pain. Missing James was far better than forgetting him, and he enjoyed the noise in the now over quiet flat.

               Yes, he was definitely going mad.

               Now, _occasionally_ , James Moriarty’s haunt would do something a little bit more unsettling than sarcastic comments or sensual moans. Every once in a while, he would try to convince Sherlock of something the detective prayed the real James would never do.

               _Just slip a little arsenic into his coffee, Sherlock. Nice and easy._

_Honestly, she’s so careless. You could just take her credit card now. You could ruin her life._

_You could take that gun and shoot him, Sherlock. He would never see it coming. Poor thing._

               What worried Sherlock the most about this was the knowledge that these more disturbing comments mostly revolved around John. Since James had never really said these things, did that mean _Sherlock_ was thinking this way about John? Was James corrupting him into hating his best friend, or was he starting to on his own? And either way, did John deserve it?

               The detective rolled over in bed, waiting for James to say something.

               _I…love you_.

               Sherlock sighed, feeling something stir inside him as he listened to the echo of James’s first proclamation of love to him. He remembered how quiet the flat had been, how careful they had been not to wake John up, how his confusion over his feelings had started to gently lift away. James’s chest had risen and fallen gently with his own, and he had enjoyed the unrestrained, unprecedented level of contact that he had shared with the criminal. James’s eyes had been so deep with emotion that night, when he tried to look into the eyes of the James next to him, all he saw was a cheap photocopy, nothing that could dream of comparing to the real thing.

               He listened to James say it again and again until morning, comparing it to all the other times he had proclaimed his love. He realized, with a pang, that each time they had said it; the criminal had been first.

               _Stupid_ , Sherlock was furious with himself. How had he let that happen? How had he been so blind? Of course James had been bound to get tired of supplying all the affection, but was that truly what had brought this on? The detective was the more reserved one when it came to love affairs, but he also certainly wasn’t cold. No, it was definitely something with John. Sherlock had always thought he would have to choose one over the other, but now that James was gone, the detective wasn’t sure he even _wanted_ John around anymore. John clearly hated James. As long as the detective and the criminal were together, John wouldn’t look at him the same. But this was _John_ he was thinking of…

               Sherlock could never decide which time had been his favorite. The first time the criminal had said it would most likely never stop resonating around his skull, no matter how long it had been since James had left. Just thinking of it increased his heartbeat to an unreasonable and borderline unsafe level. It had seemed so perplexing, so strange then, to find his enemy cared for him. With a sickening jolt, he wondered if that meant it had all been fake from the very first ‘I love you’.

               The second time had been after they had made love, truly made love, for the first time. He could still remember the deep breathing, the slight chill on their skin as they cooled down, the velvet undertones to James’s voice. The criminal had been completely in control then. Where was the accident, then? James had told him when he’d left that he’d been ‘influenced’ by other factors. Sherlock found it difficult to believe that the criminal had been so blinded by intimacy that he’d been unable to control his emotions.

               Though, perhaps that was wishful thinking. Two out of the three times the criminal had proclaimed his love had been after intimacy. Sherlock still clung to the hope that this was an irrelevant coincidence.

               _The universe is rarely so-_ Mycroft’s voice echoed inside his mind, and Sherlock shut him in a corner.

               The third time, James’s smile had lit the grey London streets like stars lit a night sky. Sherlock rarely saw a true grin, unhindered by sarcasm, on the criminal’s face. In fact, that had been one of the only times he’d _ever_ seen it. The fact that this smile was accompanied by the three words Sherlock loved and hated the most was…unforgettable. And his _laugh_... it hurt more listening to that than everything else did combined.

               Sherlock flinched on the couch, where he lay, thinking. The haunt of James had suddenly appeared, giving a sudden flashback to when they had used to lay on the couch together.

               He opened his eyes and glanced at the clock. Two am. Sherlock wondered where he should try next.

               There didn’t seem to be a single place in the flat where James could leave him be.


	15. Rain

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, Sherlock? The case is solved,” Lestrade suggested, concerned for the empty way the detective stared down at the man’s corpse, now being lifted onto a gurney.

               “Sherlock, did you hear me?” Lestrade frowned.

               “Yes! I heard you!” Sherlock suddenly snapped. Another case he’d had to do alone. He hadn’t seen James for two weeks, and somehow John had managed to keep his new girlfriend for that long. The detective hated to admit it, but the lack of companionship was beginning to drive him up the wall. Neither problem was easily fixable, either, as John wasn’t likely to break up as per his request, and Sherlock was trying not to think of James.

               Lestrade decided he had better give the detective some space. Maybe it was just him, but the detective had seemed colder recently. Though maybe it was just the weather getting to all of them.

               Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets as he strode outside, away from the crime scene, and was immediately greeted by an icy breeze. Good. He liked the way the cold numbed him. The clouds today were as dark as his emotions, and he didn’t feel the least bit guilty for being rude to Greg. Not _everything_ was his fault.

               He had only walked a few blocks when he heard a loud boom from overhead. Good. He wanted it to rain. He wanted the cold to seep through his clothing until it chilled his very bones. Sherlock didn’t feel liked taking a bus or a cab, anyway. Talking to _anyone_ would probably send him over the edge right now.

               Sherlock began to regret his decision after only a few minutes. The wind howled as rain poured down from the heavens in buckets, drenching the detective as though he had jumped into a lake. At this point, however, it really made no difference if he took shelter; he would still be wet. The detective settled for stringing off curse words mentally while marching forward through the icy downpour.

               _It’s fucking January. Why the hell is not snowing? It’s cold enough for snow…_

Sherlock turned his head to the side, studying a man who was shouting into his phone on the opposite side of the street, hunched underneath an umbrella. His face was extremely animated as he shouted and Sherlock, despite himself, decided to make an attempt at listening over the howling wind.

               “Well make sure it doesn’t fucking….again, Mort…. personally see to it that….day AGAIN!”

               Sherlock could only make out bits and pieces of the conversation, but even over the wind, he would recognize that accent anywhere. With a pang, he restudied the form of James Moriarty on the opposite side of the street. He would give anything to be anywhere else right now, but somehow he still felt extremely distant from the criminal; as though there were several blocks and not just one street in between the two. He watched as James hung up the phone and stuffed it in his coat pocket angrily, starting to fight forward against the wind again. The criminal’s umbrella seemed to be doing nothing, and his normally obedient hair was disheveled and out of place.

               Sherlock mentally slapped himself. What was he doing? James had told him that he didn’t love him. He had made it perfectly clear. That didn’t stop the detective, however, from throwing caution (and his pride) to the wind and following the criminal.

<br />

               It took a few blocks for James to notice the figure following him, he was so busy fighting against the wind and picturing the different ways he could murder Mort. When he did, however, he mentally kicked himself for being so careless. That could easily have been an assassin, or a government goon. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have cared, but it just so happened that today, he didn’t really feel much like dying.

               As soon as James turned around the look at the figure, his heart leapt out of his chest.

               _Sherlock_.

               It was obviously him. He would recognize that coat anywhere. And if not for that, then the detective gave himself away by the fact that he too stopped when James turned around.

               James hated himself for being happy that the detective was there. Especially when he had John. James knew he could never, ever replace John. But something stopped him from walking away. James knew that if he left now, he would never see Sherlock again. Never for the rest of his life. That reality seemed so crushing, so hopeless, that he couldn’t help himself. He took a step towards the detective.

               Sherlock hesitated, then took a step.

               James took another step.

               Then Sherlock.

               Soon, the two were directly across the street from one another. Though the wind and rain made it difficult to see, they both were making direct eye contact.

               James took a step into the street. The wind seemed to have gone silent.

               Sherlock took another.

               Without so much as a sideways glance too look for traffic, James closed the remaining distance between them, sprinting towards the detective and nearly toppling him over as he threw his arms around him, squeezing as tightly as he possibly could with his shaking arms.

               Sherlock stiffened for half a second before returning the gesture. Who needed pride?

               James awkwardly tried to balance holding the umbrella behind Sherlock’s back as the two embraced, and it was a moment before Sherlock considered the idea that maybe he should take it. As soon as both of James’s hands were free, he grabbed Sherlock’s face and crashed his lips to the detective’s with such force that Sherlock, once again, feared he would fall over.

               It was a strange kiss; the exact opposite of their usual kisses. James’s lips hungrily devoured Sherlock’s as he kissed back slowly and deeply. James was the first one to pull away.

               “I’m sorry,” the look on his face was so pleading, so desperate, that Sherlock almost couldn’t believe it was really James saying it. The detective maintained his composure and merely stared deep into James’s eyes.

               “I lied, Sherlock,” James fought to keep his voice strong enough to shout over the wind, “I lied because I thought I was better off without you.”

               Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. Suddenly he was extremely aware of exactly how soaked the two of them were. Every piece of clothing clung to his skin, and he was truly chilled to the bone. Somehow, none of this bothered him. He, to be quite honest, felt that cold didn’t affect him when James was nearby.

               “I love you.”

               It was different than the other times. The others seemed petty in comparison. Tender, soft, like a feather gently coming to rest. Now James’s words seemed to echo throughout his entire mind palace, ringing through all of London. This time, he knew James meant it. This wasn’t puppy love, this wasn’t blind desire, this was deep, painful, cuts-like-glass love.

               And James was giving it all to Sherlock.

               “You…love me?” he had better clarify; he didn’t want James committing to something he didn’t want.

               James forced Sherlock into another kiss, crashing their lips together for a few moments before finally letting him go. Sherlock’s mind was buzzing when they parted.

               “Yes! I love you, _doofus_!” James now had to shout to be heard above the wind, “I was a… I was a fool! I was a coward! Do you hear me?” His eyes held a familiar fire, though this time they held a spark of self doubt.

               Sherlock stared, breathing heavily now. He was filled with things to say, he just didn’t know how to say them. He settled with pulling James in for a kiss. The criminal felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest that only appeared when the detective initiated things. Only Sherlock could give him that. Only Sherlock could kiss with that kind of a fire. The rain continued to beat down on both of them.

               Sherlock finally pulled away, “…I love you too.”

               The two geniuses only stood for a moment, feeling as though this was the first time each had seen the other. Finally, a small ghost of a grin flitted across James’s face and he and the detective, hand in hand, marched forward to battle the storm together.


	16. Bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: If biting of a malicious nature is triggering to you, you may want to skip this chapter. Also, gore/blood/etc warning.

_The trees were massive, towering over John as though he had been reduced to the size of a rodent. It wasn’t night, but wasn’t daytime, either. The lighting gave the doctor reason to believe a large thunderstorm would be taking place soon._

_John’s heart skipped a beat as he felt survival instinct kick in. It was far too quiet. The only noise he could hear was his own breath and footsteps. Why on Earth were his feet so heavy? He needed to move faster! The doctor felt almost nauseous as the feeling of being watched set in. He felt a jolt as the realization that he was unarmed set in._

_Stupid, stupid. Where was his gun?_

_John then realized why he was here. Sherlock. Where was he? He needed to find the detective! John tried to rake his memory of the layout of the Baskerville woods, but could find nothing. Dammit! These were definitely those trees. He didn’t care that he was breathing in the hallucinogens, only that Sherlock was missing._

_The scene changed. John could now see the Baskerville laboratory from a distance. His heart beat faster with every painstakingly slow step he took towards the large building. The doctor could feel something getting closer behind him… oh_ God _, he knew it was right behind him…_

_Finally, John found himself inside the laboratory. His feet were slightly lighter than before, but his movements were still hindered, as though he was trying to run through water. The doctor began sprinting down corridors in the abandoned facility, shadows dancing on the walls and reflective tiles. Someone was definitely behind him…_

_“John,” the doctor heard a groan as he entered one of the main rooms._

_“Sherlock!” John rushed over to his friend, who was locked inside a large cage. As soon as he was close enough to get a good look at the detective, his stomach dropped. Hideous bites covered Sherlock’s skin, angry around the edges and deep red. Some were almost green with infection, oozing mysterious substances that John wished he could unsee._

_“Now it’s a party,” a quiet Irish voice crooned from behind John. The doctor turned around so quickly that he felt a pain in his neck. Moriarty’s eyes were black as coals, glittering at John in the darkness with malice. He looked like an animal to the doctor, and the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable._

_James leaned to the side without moving his feet to look around John. The killer grinned at the detective, white teeth gleaming in the dim light. It was disturbing to see the polished white so close to the red of Sherlock’s wounds. He looked ready for another bite…_

_“I love you,” James murmured sweetly to his pet._

_“Love you…too,” Sherlock’s voice hitched as a jolt of pain sent him straining against his chains. The room was silent a moment except for the jangling of metal on metal. John noticed that James’s expression grew darker and darker the longer the detective struggled._

_“Bad pet,” James scolded evenly, “You’re going to be punished for that.” The monster strolled slowly towards the cage, and soon the detective’s form was writhing uncontrollably by the criminal’s hand._

_“James, please, no!” Sherlock begged. He sounded as though he was choking back tears._

_“Sherlock!” John made a run for the cage, but stopped in his tracks when Sherlock looked around Moriarty to stare the doctor straight in the eye. Both consultants looked like frenzied lions around a fresh kill as John stood exposed._

_“I love him,” Sherlock spat. John’s stomach dropped when he took in that the detective’s eyes were now pitch dark, the same as James’s. The criminal’s smirk was the last thing John saw before he felt himself tackled to the ground._

_Biting. Everywhere._

_No matter how many mouths were on him, John knew it all was James. His teeth were wet as they pierced his skin, and John could do nothing but writhe and scream and try fruitlessly to get away from the monster. Skin was slowly pierced and broken, sometimes even_ peeled _off in the process. The bites got deeper and deeper and John was beginning to think he was being eaten when-_

               John jolted awake, shooting upright in bed. For what felt like an hour, but must have been mere minutes, he tried to calm his frantic breathing. No matter how many times his chest heaved, however, he felt no air entering his lungs. He felt like he was being roasted alive in his bed sheets, the air was so hot.

               It was only a dream. Only a dream. Only a dream.

               Finally, John decided to go downstairs and have a quick cuppa, just to give his hands something to do and help bring him back to reality. Going straight back to sleep was out of the question; on his way down the stairs he kept catching himself rubbing his skin and checking behind him, still believing the bites and the monster that delivered them were real.

               Well, one _was_ real, actually.

               This fact did nothing to help John’s psyche, and he jumped about a foot into the air when he walked into the kitchen to find Sherlock already there.

               “John,” the detective greeted with a slight wrinkle of the forehead that asked the silent question, ‘why are you up?’

               “What? Oh, hey, Sherlock. You’re having tea, too?” John still was finding it difficult to talk, and he tried to hide his heavy breathing as he gestured to the detective’s steaming mug.

               “No, it’s pink lemonade,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

               “Ha. Funny,” John frowned.

               “I try.”

               “So why are you up?” John asked as he grabbed the still hot kettle and hastily poured himself some tea, not caring what mysterious drugs Sherlock could have incorporated into it. The doctor glanced behind himself again.

               “James had to leave for a few hours to straighten something out. Wouldn’t let me come even though I can’t sleep without-” the detective froze midsentence, a slight blush creeping onto his normally porcelain skin. He seemed suddenly fascinated by his tea.

               “You can’t sleep without him?” John asked incredulously, “So when you were broken up-?”

               “I didn’t sleep,” Sherlock finished matter of factly. It hadn’t been long that the two had been back together, and the detective was still getting his sleep schedule back to normal.

               John shook his head, “So you two are better now?” His concern was genuine.

               Sherlock nodded slightly, giving John a sideways glance that said, ‘tread carefully’. He didn’t want a lecture. He just wished the doctor could _understand_ the truth about him and James.

               “I’m glad,” John continued, not liking the silence, “You’re grumpy when you’re-”

               “John,” Sherlock silenced John’s banter in half a second, “I’m the same.” He couldn’t keep it in any longer.

               John didn’t know how to respond for a moment, “What do you mean?” he asked defensively.

               “You think James will change me, and you’re wrong. I’m the same person,” he said flatly.

               John’s voice was unusually weak when he answered, “I hope so, Sherlock.” When he met the detective’s eyes, they seemed genuinely perplexed.

               “It’s true,” Sherlock persisted.

               “I know, Sherlock.”

               “Something else is troubling you. You’re deathly pale and your hands are unusually steady-”

               “No, no need for deductions, Sherlock. And it’s nothing. Just a nightmare.”

               Sherlock slowly nodded, still looking suspicious. John didn’t notice the slight wounded look in his eyes, because the doctor’s own orbs had just fallen onto the light red indents on the detective’s neck.

               Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s gaze and the detective flushed red again, looking anywhere but the doctor.

               “Does it… hurt when he does that?” John asked tentatively.

               Sherlock balked, “Well, John-”

               “No no no no,” John mentally slapped himself, “I just- if he ever does something to you that you don’t-”

               “John-”

               “He just seems like he’d enjoy taking advantage of inexperience and-”

               James’s words echoed inside of Sherlock’s mind for a split second, _“Honey, you are anything but a virgin,”_ and the detective almost smirked before finally cutting off John’s tirade.

               “John, I can handle myself,” the detective said gently, but firmly.

               The two stared intensely for a moment before John finally broke the awkward silence.

               “Right, well, I’m off to sleep again,” John was suddenly extremely uncomfortable, “Try to get some sleep.”

               “Mm” Sherlock couldn’t think of anything else to say. He’d told John what he’d wanted to; that he was still the same person; but apparently his best friend didn’t trust him as much as he used to. Sherlock, with a pang, wished James would come back.

               Neither slept again that night.


	17. Nurse

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” James’s voice caught on the detective’s name as he felt a stab of pain in his side.

               “No, you’re clearly not ‘fine,” Sherlock sneered, “You’ve lost a lot of blood and if we hadn’t gotten here sooner you’d have ended up a lot worse!” His tone sounded rude to Lestrade, who was trying his hardest to blend into the doorframe, but James merely rolled his eyes. Sherlock had always cared too much, and he tended to get overprotective when those close to him were threatened.

               “I had it under contro-” James’s cheeky grin turned into a grimace as he groaned from pain. Right. No more moving.

               Lestrade cleared his throat from the doorway, and Sherlock’s head snapped from his examination of James, who was lying on the couch, to where the detective inspector awkwardly stood.

               “Are you _sure_ you don’t want an ambulance?” the silver haired man pressed.

               “We’re fine,” John jumped into the conversation. His eyes were unreadable as he watched Sherlock tending James.

               Lestrade threw a doubtful look in the direction of the injured criminal, and what James had meant to be a reassuring grin turned quickly into a grimace.

               “It’s a scratch,” he managed to croak out. God, he hated being weak.

               Lestrade gave a tight lipped smile in return and left with a quick, “Right, well don’t end up in their fridge.” When he left he had a strong sense of déjà vu, though he couldn’t pinpoint the reason why.

               Running cases, Sherlock knew there was always the risk of one of them getting hurt. It was part of the job. However, he always held the hope that if one of them was to get hurt, it would be himself. The thought of James or John getting murdered on a case that _he_ had dragged them to was…unthinkable.

               “Sherlock,” James groaned, snapping him out of his thoughts. His eyes were alight with attention, ready for anything the criminal had to tell him.

               “Shut up and get the bandages.”

               “I didn’t say any-” Sherlock stopped midsentence, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked away, deep in thought. Hadn’t he done that to someone before?

               Discarding the train of thought for the time being, he jumped up to get the first aid kit, leaving James and John alone together. The criminal instantly felt the doctor’s cold gaze once the detective was out of the room.     

               Dark orbs flicked over to meet John’s, and the doctor felt a chill run through him. James was obviously in pain, but to John he still looked like the madman he had met at the pool. He dimly remembered something he had read about injured animals being more vicious.

               “Problem, doctor?” James raised his eyebrows.

               John bit his cheek, pondering his response for a moment.

               “Just,” he began tiredly, shaking his head, “Don’t make him feel guilty, alright? Don’t play the guilt card.”

               Why the Hell would James want to make Sherlock feel _worse_? He sometimes could barely fathom the stupidity of the doctor. Johnny seemed so set on believing James was a heartless killer that he chose to overlook all of the evidence to the contrary.

               This being the case, James chose a not truthful response, but one that would lose John sleep.

               “Oh, Johnny,” the criminal drawled threateningly, “I don’t _need_ a guilt card. Sherly does it all by himself.”

               “Does he _honestly_ like it when you call-” John froze midsentence as Sherlock reentered the room. James’s gaze turned to the detective, then, the first chance he got, the criminal sent a sly smirk in the doctor’s direction.

               “How deep was it?” Sherlock demanded.

               “No organs were hurt. He aimed high.”

               “Could you see if it was a clean knife?”

               “It was dark, but I’m fairly sure it was clean. You could see it shine.”

               Sherlock sighed in frustration, “I don’t need _fairly_ sure, I need you to be _completely_ sure. If this gets infected-”

               “Oh, just _heal_ me, doofus,” James moaned impatiently, “I’m losing more blood as you go on.”

               That shut Sherlock up. As he cut the criminal’s shirt off (to a quiet complaint of ‘Westwood’), he couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that the last time James had been hurt like this, it had been at his hand. _He_ had taken a knife to James. The more scars the criminal gained on his body, the more Sherlock seemed to have left his mark on him.

               James gave Sherlock an intense look so that the detective was forced to look up from his fumbling with the bandages. Of course, he could never say in front of John what he needed to say to ease the detective’s guilt. He needed to keep up the show, and because of this, when Sherlock’s panicked blue gaze fell on James’s, the criminal told the detective with soft eyes and a slight shake of the head all he needed to know. To Sherlock, it read, ‘Not your fault.’ To John, it read, ‘Let’s keep secrets from John.’

               The cut was clean, and James’s ribcage had stopped any real damage from being done. No doubt, his attacker was an amateur, not knowing how to swing a knife to cause true injuries and instead flailing blindly in the darkness, hoping that metal would make contact with skin. Sherlock refocused on the task at hand, and he slipped into scientific mode, accessing all the data he had stored about healing. John watched, arms crossed, to make sure he did it correctly.

               James hissed quietly as the detective disinfected the cut, “Careful, Sherly,” he said through gritted teeth.

               John could have imagined it, but he swore that the small smirk crossed Sherlock’s lips. He almost wanted to smile at the idea that the detective enjoyed his nickname.

               This thought was ruined, however, when James caught his gaze again, and, with a malicious smirk, mouthed ‘He likes it’ at John. The doctor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

               Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Sherlock finished. He looked to John expectantly for a review of his work.

               “Looks fine,” John answered the unasked question, and Sherlock filed away the proper manner of dressing wounds.

               The detective had just turned back to James when he was surprised by a passionate kiss on the lips. He stiffened in surprise at first, but after a moment relaxed into it. He felt slightly guilty, and the doctor’s presence was nagging at the back of his mind, but luckily, Sherlock’s rational side wasn’t completely dormant. John knew he and James were together. This was the reality of living with a couple. It wasn’t his fault that the doctor and the criminal didn’t like each other, and while this was a selfish rationale, perhaps it was time he stopped blaming himself for this petty disagreement.

               James’s gaze screamed challenge at John. His eyes were wide open as he kissed the detective, and he was doing everything he could to keep them on the doctor. ‘Mine,’ they said, ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ The criminal knew it would make John hate him, but that was the goal, was it not? He quite frankly didn’t care for sharing a flat with the doctor. He only wanted Sherlock. If John moved out because he didn’t _like_ James, then there was hardly anything he or Sherlock could do about it, wasn’t there? He had no desire to win the affections of the buffoon.

               “Well!” John said awkwardly, already backing towards the stairs to his room, “I’m going to get to sleep, so…” he trailed off as he left the room. James slowly broke the kiss to find Sherlock frowning at him.

               “What was that about?” the detective scolded.

               James didn’t answer.

               “I wish you would tell me why you hate him so much. Aside from the obvious jealously.”

               “I am not jealous.”

               “You are.”

               James didn’t answer again, only pulled Sherlock closer.

<br />

               Upstairs, John tossed and turned trying to sleep.

               _It doesn’t matter._

_He makes Sherlock happy._

_Sherlock is smart enough to make his own choices._

_He’s a prick, that’s all. He still loves Sherlock._

These and more were the thoughts that flooded his mind like a swarm of insects. He knew Sherlock loved James, but he was constantly unsure of whether James truly loved Sherlock or not. He was certainly protective enough. He was certainly affectionate enough. But where John had a problem was with the _type_ of love it was. If James was going to be a possessive prick all the time, and shut Sherlock away from the world, was that really a good relationship to be in? Decidedly not, but Sherlock seemed to have every intention of keeping James in his heart. Then there was the matter of himself and James. They had never really gotten on, but John was beginning to worry about his safety. Actually, not only his, but the people he and Sherlock knew, as well. Who was to say James wouldn’t suddenly snap…?

               _Sherlock, you cock,_ John thought, _Why can’t you just tell the truth?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you darlings enjoyed! Thank you SO MUCH for all the reviews! Poor John, don’t you think? I mean, the guy raises valid points. James is kinda being an ass. I’ll see you all next time!


	18. Meeting

John opened the door the flat, holding it open for Mary as he did so. He prayed that Sherlock and (God forbid) James were either not home or too disinterested to bother Mary and him.

               “I’ll be right back. I’ll just grab the tickets and-” John trailed off, suddenly realizing how messy their flat truly was with a wave of embarrassment. He hoped she wouldn’t look too closely at the thick layers of dust covering the bookshelves or the gruesome case photos Sherlock and James had undoubtedly left lying around. Why hadn’t he anticipated this sooner? He should have at _least_ straightened up, or asked her to wait outside. But then again, she might have thought that rude…

               “John?” he heard Mary ask, bringing him back to Earth. When the doctor turned around, he saw that she was sitting back on the sofa, grinning at him in amusement. John then felt his worries melt away; of course Mary wouldn’t mind if the flat was a little messy. Why had he worried about that in the first place?

               “You were going to get the tickets?” she reminded him.

               “Right, erm, tickets. I’ll be right back. Just, erm… make yourself comfortable,” John all but had to physically restrain himself from face palming as he turned his back on a now giggling Mary to make his way upstairs. He just thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock wasn’t here.

<br />

               James’s eyes were glued to his phone as he opened the door to the flat, and he smirked as he typed out a response to Sherlock. The two had developed a _sickeningly_ sweet habit of ceaseless texting, and while neither would ever admit to the other’s face that they liked it, both also never took longer than ten minutes to reply, no matter the hour.

               _Ah, yes darling. How could I have missed it? It seems that you have outwitted me again. Though I will say you obviously are slipping in your skills a bit. –JM_

               Oh, don’t you have someone to kill? Shouldn’t you be blowing up NATO or something? –SH

               James was beginning to type out a reply ( _No, darling. That’s this Tuesday_ ) when he noticed the unfamiliar woman sitting on their living room couch. He frowned at her. John’s girlfriends never really were the impressive sort, even for ordinary people. He dimly wondered how long this one would last…

               “You can keep texting. I won’t mind,” the blonde smiled up at him cheekily, and James scoffed before allowing his eyes to fall back onto his phone.

               “I didn’t stop for your _benefit_ ,” he sneered, unhappy with the unexpected visitor “Are you one of John’s, then?”

               “Woah now!” James only grew more irritated as she adapted to a tone of mock surprise, “Are you in the middle of a domestic, then?” the woman gestured towards his phone, “You seem grumpy.”

               James shook his head in disbelief—even now that he had Sherlock’s friends to deal with once in a while, he still wasn’t used to dealing with ordinary people being so…blunt.

               “Sherlock and I—my partner and I aren’t having a _domestic_ ,” James spat the last word, “And for the record, _darling-_ ”

               “Oh so you must be James then?” the woman, for whatever reason, didn’t seem to be intimidated at all by him, “And you and Sherlock live here with John?”

               James was surprised John had even told the girl about him, though he supposed that didn’t mean it wasn’t mostly complaining.

               “Yes,” he rolled his eyes, “Sherlock and I live here with John.”

               “Bit cramped, don’t you think?” the woman cocked her head to the side, studying him. James raised an eyebrow and she seemed to snap out of it.

               “Right, sorry then,” she stood up from the couch, “I suppose we got off to a rough start. I’m Mary.” She held out her hand.

               James stared as the name echoed in his mind. _Mary_. He couldn’t help it; he felt his expression soften ever so slightly. It wasn’t enough for the untrained eye to notice, but Mary, not being the ordinary sort, picked up on the dulling of the daggers in his eyes.

               “James,” he said, slightly softer, holding out his hand. His dark eyes quickly roved over her face, suddenly not bored by the woman at all. She didn’t look a thing like his sister had. This Mary had green eyes, rather than brown. She had golden hair, rather than brunette. Then there was her demeanor; even as a toddler, his sister had been quiet as a mouse, whereas this woman was much more to the point and confident.

               The criminal couldn’t reason _why_ he liked her so much; all that he knew was he found himself sorting her outside of the “ordinary” folder of his mind palace.

               “And you and John-?” James found that he was having difficulty speaking, for whatever reason.

               She nodded with a smile, “Yes, me and John.” James sister had almost never smiled like that. It seemed as though in another life that he had last seen her happy.

               “I’m sure you two will be very happy together,” James grinned brightly at her—a grin he usually reserved only for Sherlock.

               “Alright, I’ve got the tickets, let’s g-” John’s enthusiastic manner, along with his jaw, dropped when he saw the monster in the room with Mary.

               The two finally broke their introductory handshake, “What took you so long?” Mary teased as she made her way to John. James’s gaze darkened slightly and he glared at the doctor.

               “I’ve met your roommate. We did all sorts of gossiping, didn’t we, James?” Mary joked.

               “Oh, yes,” he played along, taking joy in the look of horror on John’s face, “All of your deepest secrets have been spilled, Johnny.”

               “Johnny?” Mary laughed, “You never told me you had a nickname! That’s so cute,” Mary playfully shoved John, who forced a smile.

               “Ah, I don’t. He just, ah, does that to… irritate me. We should probably be going…” a nervous John tried unsuccessfully to lead Mary to the door.

               “It was nice meeting you,” Mary smiled at James as she followed John out the door.

               “Make sure to give me all the gritty details later,” he grinned mischievously back at her.

               “Oh, don’t worry, love.”

               “Who is this woman?” another deep voice sounded from outside the flat.

               “Not now, Sherlock,” John sighed.

               James tried to remind himself that this was ridiculous, that sentiment was something reserved for Sherlock and Sherlock alone, but he for whatever reason couldn’t help himself feeling… _something_ for Mary. _She’s not your sister_ , a voice inside his mind reminded him, _Not your sister. Not your sister. Not your sister._

               James told the voice to shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary is here! Yay! Wonder how she plays into this… Hope you enjoyed, and I’ll see you next time! R&R please and thank you!


	19. Song

Music floated through 221B, resonating through even the dustiest corner as Sherlock expertly wielded his trusty violin, gazing out the window at the cold February air.

               Suddenly, the detective froze, hearing a creak on the stairs outside the door to the flat. He inwardly smirked, knowing exactly who was there.

               It wasn’t John; the doctor was spending Valentine’s Day with Mary, as was to be expected. While Sherlock found it odd to wish for such a thing for his friend, the detective had his fingers crossed that John would end up spending the night there. A night of privacy with James was never anything short of a mouthwatering idea.

               The detective resumed playing, allowing James to finish making his way into the flat. When the door finally creaked open, Sherlock slowly turned around, lowering his violin and noting the hint of color James had with him today.

               The criminal grinned devilishly as he presented a single, scarlet rose to Sherlock.

               “For you,” he said smoothly, eyes and teeth glinting.

               Sherlock gingerly took the rose, face unreadable, “I thought we’d agreed you weren’t to send me bodies as gifts.”

               James’s demeanor remained mischievous, “Oh, Sherly, you know me, I couldn’t resist.” The criminal was still quite proud of the crime he had constructed for that day. He was almost disappointed that he had never received any calls from an angry, frustrated Sherlock about his unsolvable case.

               Sherlock frowned, “I don’t want you killing people for my amusement,” he scolded gently.

               “Sherlock,” James said reasonably, “They needed to die anyway. And, let’s be honest; you enjoyed yourself.”

               The detective, to his horror, felt a corner of his mouth twitch upwards and quickly fade back into a neutral expression, “It was decent.” He felt guilty for having enjoyed it, but he had to admit, it _had_ been a fascinating case to work. Sherlock only hoped James was telling the truth that they had been going to die anyway.

               James’s gaze darkened, “It was brilliant, and you know it.”

               “It was brilliant for a common criminal. I solved it in 6 hours,” Sherlock said haughtily.

               “6 hours for the great Sherlock Holmes, though,” James breathed, “That isn’t exactly impressive, my dear.” The criminal’s movements were seductively lithe as he lazily walked towards the detective. “And common criminal? You’re heading into dangerous territory, Sherly.”

               Sherlock huffed, smiling gently, “You’re not common. You’d be in my fridge by now, if you were.”

               James grinned broadly, “And don’t you forget it.” After a moment of silence passed, the criminal continued, “It was a lovely song, by the way.”

               Sherlock licked his lips, slightly nervous, “I wrote it for you,” he said softly, his gentle gaze meeting James’s nearly unreadable one. The criminal’s eyes wore an expression that could only be a mixture of confusion and pure adoration.

               “Would you play it again?” James suddenly asked, and Sherlock cocked his head to the side, caught off guard by the unusual request.

               “Yes, alright.”

               James took a seat in the nearest chair and felt his world fall silent as Sherlock began to play. Composed on his own… the criminal wasn’t sure how to react. He loved the detective more than anything but he had never in his life received a gift so personal, so heartfelt. James was more than a little touched at the gesture and felt that he, to his horror, had to attempt to swallow the lump in his throat several times before accepting that it wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

               The music was slow. It weaved a deep melody—something that was as adoring and affectionate as it was dark. If it was possible to paint a picture with music, Sherlock had certainly done it. James studied the detective as he concentrated, trying to commit every movement, every furrow of the brow to memory. The criminal was, to be honest, completely overwhelmed at the moment, and he felt it was easier if he focused on small details.

               Finally, the song ended, and James, with a crooked smile, gave Sherlock a short round of applause. It had been completely flawless music; the type that would put symphonies to shame. The criminal wondered how many times it had been practiced. The detective gave a short bow and turned to put his violin away, then returning his gaze to James, who was studying him intently, as though calculating something.

               “Thank you,” the Irishman finally said, still looking slightly confused.

               “Mm,” Sherlock responded. It really hadn’t been difficult to compose a single song. It had taken him less than an hour to learn it (though he still had practiced it tirelessly every chance he had gotten). James’s gift had been so complex, so unique to him as a person, what good qualities did a song have-?

               “Sherlock,” the detective could hear the eye roll in James’s voice as it snapped him out of his thoughts, “It was lovely.” As usual, the criminal seemed to be able to read his thoughts.

               Sherlock balked, “Really, James, it was noth-”

               “No, it wasn’t nothing,” the criminal’s eyes were warm as he stood up, making his way to the detective, “It was perfect.” The two were now only centimeters apart.

               James watched as Sherlock’s forehead scrunched. God, he loved it when he did that. The detective stayed silent, pondering his partner’s current expression. He didn’t think he’d ever seen so much light in the criminal’s eyes before.

               James finally decided to continue, “If you ever need Christmas gift ideas,” he said softly, breath a feather on Sherlock’s skin, “an audio file of that would be divine.”

               Sherlock felt goose bumps rise on his arms at the criminal’s closeness. Despite his now flustered state, he still managed to get out a coherent and well thought out response.

               “Why on Earth does a song mean so much to you?” the detective wondered out loud, shaking his head in amazement.

               Rather than answer, James laced a hand in Sherlock’s hair, dragging him into a deep, passionate kiss. After a moment, they pulled apart and the criminal murmured with a slight smirk,

               “ _Deduce_ it, doofus.”


	20. Blindfold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***If bondage/BDSM is a trigger for you, then this may not be the chapter for you.

“Sherly.”

               “Mm?”

               “He’s not coming back.”

               Sherlock licked his lips. Of course it was obvious by now that John would be spending the night at Mary’s. The detective had deduced that half an hour ago. He just didn’t want to leave room for even a _slight_ risk that the doctor would walk in on them tonight.

               When James and Sherlock’s gazes finally met, both pairs of eyes were ablaze with lust. The criminal’s chocolate orbs had a sickly sweet undertone to them. ‘ _Why don’t you just come get me?’_ they said.

               Sherlock still tried to control his now rapidly beating heart as he got up from where he sat to meet the criminal. He wanted this to last. But then again, he also wanted more than _anything_ to just get _started_.

               “I know,” Sherlock breathed. James instead of answering pulled the detective into a dark kiss. As usual, the criminal’s tongue rendered Sherlock’s usual powers of the mind useless, and the detective felt himself slipping down, down, down, into a haze of arousal as they kissed.

               James took care to drag his teeth across Sherlock’s bottom lip as he slowly pulled away, eyes still boring holes into the detective’s skull. Sherlock huffed with slight frustration at the lack of contact. He needed James _closer_ …

               “Do you even know,” James murmured, voice velvety, “what you _do_ to me, Sherlock Holmes?” The criminal was almost starry eyed when he looked up at the detective, lacing a hand in the brunette’s curls as though he still could not believe that _this_ was all his.

               Instead of answering, Sherlock grabbed the criminal’s wrist in an iron grip, placing his two fingers right where James’s pulse would be. He had tried it once with the Woman, what seemed like ages ago. Looking back on that memory was like trying to see through mud; useless and unappealing. He hoped she was well, but now seeing what love really felt like had been a lesson to Sherlock that he hadn’t felt much more than infatuation at that time.

               Just as he had thought. James’s heartbeat was like a jackhammer against his fingers, and the criminal smiled wryly at the detective’s trick, eyes and teeth glittering in the dimmed light.

               “Clever, clever,” James said quietly, “Perhaps I should rephrase my question; What _would_ you do to me, Sherlock Holmes?”

               Sherlock scoffed arrogantly, “What _haven’t_ I already done to you?” He was pleased that his voice came out smoothly, almost icily; not hoarse with lust as he had thought it would.

               James licked his lips, turned on his heel, and to Sherlock’s frustration, walked away from him. For a moment of horror, the detective thought that the criminal was leaving as he made his way towards the door, but his apprehension was replaced with curiosity as James took two scarves off the hooks they hung on by the door. Sherlock only stared as the criminal slowly turned back around, holding the detective’s blue scarf, and his own deep red one. The Irishman watched Sherlock as he absently wound the fabric around his hands, feeling every fiber woven into the thick wool. The detective felt his heart skip a beat as James decided to smell the blue scarf, inhaling the faint smell of Sherlock’s cologne that was permanently attached to it.

               Finally, Sherlock managed to get his bearings. Time to get back in the game. James was all about foreplay.

               “I’ve tortured you,” he said as James leaned against the wall, face unreadable, “I’ve sucked you off, I’ve topped for you, I’ve bottomed for you, I’ve let _you_ suck me off-” Sherlock paused to note the criminal’s obvious smirk at this, “-We’ve done _everything_ , James. Unless you have something…intriguing planned, you’re wasting my time.” The detective fought back a smirk at the murderous look James gave him. If the criminal was allowed to toy with him, surely he was allowed to do so in return? With a flash of nostalgia, Sherlock noted that James looked quite shockingly similar now to how he had during their first meeting at the pool. Hm. He wondered what that meant.

               With unbelievably deft feet, James made his way silently over to where Sherlock stood. His pupils were extremely dilated with lust, and dimly the detective wondered if his looked the same.

               “ _Fuck me_ ,” James hissed.

               The next few minutes were a blur to Sherlock. It seemed in only seconds he and James were on his bed, the criminal still holding the two scarves in a tight fist. The detective kissed James roughly as he held the criminal down, arms pinned to the bed. Their chests were heaving as Sherlock’s Cupid’s bow lips crashed against James’s thinner ones, and the criminal moaned as the detective ground their hips together. The friction was becoming unbearable, and both consultants were quickly finding that no amount of mere biting and sucking could satisfy them.

               Suddenly, James managed to escape Sherlock’s iron grip, forcing the both of them up into a kneeling position. Their labored breathing filled the room and James’s teeth delivered one last bite to Sherlock’s neck before he slowly licked his lips and spoke.

               “Sherlock,” just hearing James say his name sent a shiver down the detective’s spine, “Don’t waste _my_ time.”

               James felt a rush of blood go to his cock as pure, animalistic desire flooded Sherlock’s eyes. A corner of the detective’s lip twitched upwards, showing his teeth in a snarl. James licked his lips again in an openmouthed smirk; Sherlock enjoyed playing this game, being dangerous; a demon with James.

               The criminal didn’t break eye contact as he effectively undid each and every button on Sherlock’s shirt, casually flinging it aside when he was finished. The detective could barely find the self-control needed to allow this—he was _ever_ so tempted to pin James down again…

               James’s fingers ghosted across Sherlock’s skin as he wound the blue scarf around the detective’s neck. Sherlock bit his lip, losing patience, but impossibly aroused. He was uncomfortable as his cock strained against his dark trousers.

               “Blindfold me,” James roughly tossed the scarf to Sherlock, who caught it with fiery eyes, “Rip my clothes off, Sherlock. _Bite_ me-” the criminal spoke through gritted teeth, but was effectively quieted with a deep kiss from the detective. Sherlock pushed him onto his back again, and James grunted in pleasure when both of his wrists were roughly pinned down above his head.

               “Shut up,” Sherlock ordered, lips still against the criminal’s. James grinned.

               The detective, still using a hand to pin down the criminal’s wrists, fumbled on the bed behind him where the red scarf had fallen. As he freed James’s arms to blindfold the criminal, Sherlock felt a hand on his own scarf, attempting to pull him closer.

               Now that James was completely blind, the criminal was hyper aware of everything else in the room that he hadn’t been before. He could practically _taste_ the arousal in the air. He smelled the distinct scents of the room; dust, Sherlock’s cologne, and the smell of the detective’s skin that James could never quite put a label on.

               The criminal suddenly felt his shirt ripped off his chest, straight in half. He heard buttons hitting the bedside table and wall, and could almost feel the individual fibers of fabric tearing. James felt a slight sting where Sherlock’s fingernails had grazed his skin during the rough gesture, and hummed when he felt a hot wetness that he guessed was the detective’s tongue licking the small cuts.

               James heard a rustling and a slight grunt as Sherlock undid his trousers and more than likely took off his pants, and soon felt himself completely naked, save for his blindfold, along with the detective.

               Now the real fun could begin.

               The criminal dimly thought back to when he had imagined himself in Sherlock’s position. God, how wrong he had been. Not that it wasn’t nice to have the detective moan his name, but in James’s experience with Sherlock, he had found that being the submissive one felt, ultimately, more naughty.

               “Make me pay, Sherly,” James said sweetly, grinning in anticipation. He grunted as he felt teeth on his inner thigh, along with one of Sherlock’s large hands. The detective’s grip was firm, as usual managing to effectively pin his appendage to the bed. The criminal dimly wondered what was in Sherlock’s tea that gave him that sort of strength with zero training.

               The criminal sighed as the detective kissed his naked body. The softness of Sherlock’s lips was so much more evident now that he wasn’t impaired by sight. The woolen fabric of the detective’s scarf dragged across James’s abdomen as Sherlock’s mouth made its way up his body, hot breath teasing the criminal as much as the actual act of kissing and biting did.

               James felt something smooth pressed against his lips. He gave an experimental lick to see if he could discover what part of Sherly it was. The lack of response he got confirmed his suspicion that it was not the body part he was hoping for.

               “Suck,” Sherlock’s baritone demanded.

               James’s fingers closed around what he had deduced was actually the detective’s wrist, and, in a moment of devilishness, bit down hard. He heard what could only be described as a growl deep in Sherlock’s chest. Deciding he had better not push his luck, the criminal ran his tongue back and forth over the bite marks and, tasting slight iron, began to suck.

               The detective gave a low moan as James created what he hoped would be an obvious mark. God, he hoped John would see that in the morning. The criminal wanted to see him _squirm_ in discomfort, thinking of what he and the detective had done the previous night. Just as he was wondering if Sherlock thought the same, James felt a teasing hand rub his cock, only succeeding in making him impossibly harder and all the more frustrated and impatient.

               “Please…” he breathed against Sherlock’s marked wrist. This seemed to really do it for the detective, as James could have sworn he felt Sherlock get harder.

               James moaned as Sherlock’s tongue licked, hot and wet, from base to tip of his erect cock. He felt almost as though an electric current was running through his veins. Suddenly, he was completely surrounded by wetness, and it took all of the criminal’s self-control not to buck his hips into the detective’s mouth. He didn’t want to make Sherlock gag. Actually…

               The criminal decided to try it. He was rewarded with an unpleasant noise from Sherlock and a tensing of the detective’s muscles, which he could feel through the hand on his thigh. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock’s entire weight move off not only him, but the bed entirely.

               _No, no, NO!_ James’s entire body screamed in protest. What was Sherlock doing?

               “Sherlock, get back here and-”

               James was silenced with a hissing of… something through the air and a sharp crack of what felt like leather against his stomach.

               _Riding crop_.

               “Shut up,” Sherlock ordered, “Don’t try that again.”

               The place where he had been hit felt hot, and James could tell there would be a welt tomorrow. He grinned, and Sherlock felt a rush of frustration and arousal as the criminal’s teeth gleamed.

               The detective straddled James and tilted the criminal’s chin up with the riding crop. He licked his lips.

               “It’s not per-” he began reassuring James.

               “I KNOW IT’S NOT PERMANENT!” Sherlock was relieved, rather than alarmed at James’s outburst. Taking this as a hint to continue, he brought the riding crop back across James’s stomach with a crack.

               The criminal moaned, “Fuck, _yes_ …” and his cock quivered, “ _Please_ , Sherlock.”

               “With that attitude, you’re going to need to give me more than ‘please,’” Sherlock hated to admit it, but this was more… enjoyable than he’d thought it would be. The detective was beginning to realize why Irene enjoyed her job. He ran his hand up and down the riding crop absently, waiting for an answer.

               James shook his head blindly, still grinning like a fool, “Oh, you damn, _arrogant-_ ”

               Another crack of the riding crop silenced him. The criminal soon felt his head being led by Sherlock, who had a hand laced tightly in his hair, towards the detective’s still impossibly hard cock. James’s fingers fumbled blindly on the detective’s skin for a few moments as he got adjusted, before he got into a rhythm of sucking. He was immensely more aware of Sherlock’s quieter moans, the smoothness of his skin under his tongue, the heat radiating off of his body, the increasingly obvious smell of sex…

               The criminal almost _purred_ with pleasure as he noticed, when Sherlock forced him away from his cock, that the detective’s hands actually trembled with arousal. James fell onto his back again, and for a moment all that could be heard was heavy breathing.

               Suddenly, the criminal heard a drawer opened and a cap unscrewed. _Finally_ …

               Without the slightest bit of a warning, Sherlock slipped a finger inside of James, and the criminal gasped at the cold lubricant.

               “Sherlock….” James whined. He was effectively shut up when the detective, with a quiet grunt, slipped another finger inside of him.

               “Oh, _God_ …”

               It was just their labored breathing for another moment or two, after which Sherlock finally slipped a third finger inside of the criminal.

               “Do it, Sherlock,” James said through gritted teeth, “What will you do? Tell me.”

               Sherlock swallowed before answering, chest heaving with arousal. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. How did one form sentences, again? He licked his lips.

               “Fuck you,” he finally answered. The curse sounded strange on his tongue, but he liked it nonetheless. He wriggled his fingers inside of James slightly, eliciting a gasp from the criminal.

               “Fuck me what?”

               Sherlock suddenly removed his fingers from James, and cracked the riding crop across the criminal’s stomach once more before answering, his mouth barely a centimeter from James’s.

               “Fuck you _hard_.”

               The criminal groaned with ecstasy from pain as the detective finally entered him. After taking a moment to get adjusted, Sherlock finally went through with his promise. Everything was red to James, and it wasn’t just because of the scarf still obstructing his vision. Every grunt from Sherlock, every movement of a hand, every gyration of the hips deepened the passion that colored his vision. The detective was rough, but not because he was careless; at this point, it was fairly obvious to him what the criminal liked, and that was to be dominated by the one person he allowed.

               “Sherlock,” James breathed, much weaker now as the detective brought their hips together again and again, “Soon,” his voice hitched slightly at the end as Sherlock hit a particularly sensitive spot.

               The detective nodded distractedly as he worked, then dimly remembered James couldn’t see him, “Me…too,” his statement ended in a gasp as he felt him tumble off the edge, pulling out hastily and riding out his orgasm. The sticky warmth now covering the criminal’s chest and (he hated to admit) the thought of Sherlock’s _damn_ scarf, covered in cum, was too much for James as well.

               “Sherlock,” he whimpered as the familiar wave of ecstasy hit him. James sank back onto the bed, completely exhausted, as he attempted to control his breathing. His body was still buzzing in post orgasm bliss.

               The criminal blinked as familiar large hands took off his blindfold for him. He gazed into Sherlock’s eyes as he adjusted to sight again, surprised, but not put off, by the tender expression they held. The detective gently kissed James, pressing their bruised lips together as he gently traced the marks the riding crop had left on the criminal.

               Sherlock flopped down on his back next to James, unconsciously putting a hand behind his head, as he was used to seeing the criminal do.

               Neither spoke for a while, both focusing on calming their breathing. Finally, Sherlock decided to break the silence, needing to get something off his mind.

               “The riding crop-”

               James knew where this was going, “-was a lovely touch,” he finished for Sherlock, glancing over at his partner, “Darling, these,” he gestured to the welts, “will be gone in a day. Maybe two.”

               Sherlock nodded to himself, filing the information away, “That was good,” he noted aloud.

               “Oh, well spotted,” James said sarcastically.

               “Sorry,” Sherlock shook his head, embarrassed at the obviousness of his previous statement, “I meant-”

               James sighed and moved closer to his partner, and Sherlock changed positions along with him, both now holding the other in a tight embrace. The criminal roughly tugged a blanket over them.

               “You meant,” James said, “What you said. And it wasn’t incorrect. It was divine.”

               “Mm,” Sherlock hummed, feeling very tired.

               “You realize if we sleep like this,” James pointed out, “The entire place will reek of sex when John gets back.”

               To the criminal’s amusement, Sherlock gave him a toothy smirk at this.

               “You’d better go shower, then.”

               James sighed in frustration, “I don’t want to get up,” he whined.

               “Well, _I’m_ not getting up,” Sherlock protested.

               The criminal’s dark orbs moved to the detective’s scarf, “You wore it,” he smirked.

               Sherlock rolled his eyes.

               “You’re going to have to wash it, now.”

               “Obviously.”

               James moved so that his forehead rested against Sherlock’s, and the two consultants stayed in that tender position for what felt like a long time, simply breathing and staring into one another’s eyes.

               “I love you,” Sherlock said.

               “I love you, too.”

               James listened as Sherlock slowly fell asleep, and eventually he too succumbed to unconsciousness, the last thoughts in his mind of the detective’s soft skin and deep breathing.


	21. Busted

_We agreed on 7, right? -JW_

               John paused a moment before hitting send. He didn’t want to seem overbearing, but it was seven fifteen already and their reservations were for seven thirty. He grimly wondered if he was being stood up.

               _I know, I’m sorry! On my way. I met James at the coffee shop and got hung up. –MM_

When John saw the text he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. What the hell was _James_ doing with Mary? Why were they meeting up? If they were having an affair together, not only would he hurt John, he would also hurt Sherlock. No… John couldn’t assume this was romantic. However, he had no issue with assuming that James was dangerous for Mary to be around. No doubt, she hadn’t the slightest clue that she was speaking to a serial killer. What if James flew off the wall and tried to kill her, as he had Sherlock? John couldn’t taste that risk. Why the hell couldn’t Sherlock keep James occupied enough? Why was the criminal looking for distractions in his girlfriend? A mental image of James French kissing Mary flew to the front of his mind, and John suppressed nausea. Suddenly, he didn’t feel like eating dinner.

<br />

               “Em, Mary?” John asked as cutlery brushed against dinnerware. He needed to ask this very carefully.

               “Yes?” the blonde looked up from her food to meet John’s eyes. He found himself dumbfounded for a moment as she twirled a fork in her pasta absentmindedly, gazing at him with starry eyes expectantly.

               “Earlier you said you met James…”

               “Oh, God,” she said softly, “You didn’t think I was cheating on you? I thought he was gay.” Mary always had a way of knowing what John was thinking. She was like Sherlock in that way- only less of an arse.

               “Well, no I… I know you would never do that. And I’m not quite sure what he is. I think so, but I wouldn’t put it past him to… change.”

               Mary looked disappointed, “I don’t think it works like that, John,” she scolded.

               “No, I mean, for most people it isn’t how it works. I mean, James would… change, just for the sake of hurting someone,” John struggled to find a delicate way to put that the criminal was a murderous psychopath.

               “I don’t follow,” Mary cocked her head to the side, studying him.

               “James…is… he gets off on that type of stuff. He likes hurting people,” John didn’t like the way the words sounded when they were out of his mouth. They didn’t seem to do the madman any justice at all.

               “You mean he…?” Mary still looked confused.

               “He’s not entirely safe. I worry about what he might try.”

               “Safe?” Mary frowned, “You mean like he needs to be locked up?”

               John took a deep breath, “…I think so. The government… thinks otherwise. So does Sherlock. He’s completely smitten.”

               “Well, so was I at first,” Mary nodded deeply, then backtracked quickly at the look John gave her, “Not like that of course! I meant that he has a certain charisma. He seemed very kind once we’d introduced ourselves.”

               “And…before that?”

               “He was distant. A bit cold. But nothing horrific. Nothing that would make me think he has bodies in the basement,” Mary explained matter of factly.

               “Wouldn’t be surprised if he did,” John grumbled.

               “Is he really that horrible? I know he’s shagging your best friend, but really,” Mary exclaimed.

               “I’m not jealous, no,” John explained, mentally cringing at some of the marks he’d seen appearing on Sherlock on recent mornings, “I just worry, Mary. I would sleep a lot easier if you two weren’t getting coffee on a regular basis.”

               “If it makes a difference, we met there by accident. We just got to talking, and that’s why I was late,” she explained, dignified.

               “Oh,” John breathed, “Well that-”

               “I think, however,” Mary cut him off, “that I can make my own deductions about who is safe to be around. I will be cautious around him, so don’t worry. And if I see any heads in his fridge, I’ll tell you.” She added the last part with a wink, and John thought of Sherlock.

<br />

               John gave Mary a light peck on the lips before bidding her goodnight, and starting up the steps to 221B. He really thought things would work out with Mary. She had a sort of… aura about her that made her different than all the rest. _This_ was what love was. Not the obsession that Sherlock and James had. He didn’t know if they’d had one date where there wasn’t a body involved.

               Satisfied with the way the night had played out, John opened the door to the flat. James was talking on his cell by the window, and gave John a quick glance with dark eyes when the doctor walked in.

               “Sebastian, this isn’t difficult,” the criminal snapped, “We’re doing this my way. Who do you work for?... Yes, exactly. I want this done by tomorrow. The lawyer shouldn’t be hard to take out.”

               James hung up the phone with a slight huff. Sebastian could be truly thick sometimes. You cannot just simply shoot everyone from the rooftops, expecting them to disappear. There were certain steps that needed to be taken.

               “So how many people have you killed today?” John asked from behind him.

               James slowly turned around to face the doctor, irritated for two reasons now, “None, though I know that must be difficult for you to believe.”

               “It’s very difficult for me to believe,” John crossed his arms.

               “Pity,” James made as though he meant to leave the room, but John called after him.

               “Stay away from Mary.”

               James felt embers of rage stirring in his chest as he turned around, “I beg pardon?” he asked smoothly.

               “I don’t know what you want with her, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but stay away from her. This is your warning,” this issue was nonnegotiable to John.

               James grinned in mock amusement, despite the fury pumping through his veins, “Are you _threatening_ me, Johnny? I’m proud of you; that’s very cute,” he spoke as one would to a small child.

               “Just stay away from her.”

               “I didn’t realize your desperation for a partner had reached the level of _labeling_ other humans for yourself, Johnny. I won’t have you branding her like a cow because you believe she’s ‘yours’,” John was shocked and angered by the protectiveness in James’s voice. How the hell did this monster have _any_ right to act the part of the victim?

               “You don’t care about her! You don’t care about anyone!” John was getting sick of James’s lying. Where the hell was Sherlock?

               “On the contrary, I do,” James said smoothly, daggers in his eyes.

               “Oh, _do_ you?” John asked, exasperated.

               “Don’t give me an excuse to prove it.”

               “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

               “It means, Johnny,” James said dangerously quietly, “That if you do anything to her, I’ll kill you.”


	22. Wake

James sighed as he felt the gentle caress of the waking world. Consciousness slowly began to creep back into the front of his mind, and he scrunched his heavy eyelids shut. Dimly, he recognized that he had turned away from Sherlock in his sleep, and he rolled over on his other side so that he was facing the detective’s lanky form. Still hoping to get 15 minutes more of sleep before they got up, the criminal snuggled closer to the detective and pulled more blankets on top of himself before sighing and allowing the shadow of unconsciousness to fall over him again.

               Sherlock groaned as he slowly opened his eyes to look at a now deeply breathing James. The criminal slept curled in on himself slightly, with his back to the world, as though he were shielding himself from it. He tended to accidentally roll away from Sherlock in his sleep, and occasionally would jerk awake if they were sleeping close; still not completely used to having another person in bed with him.

               The detective breathed in James’s scent. Faint cologne (something expensive, he was sure), musk, and something deeper that he couldn’t put a name to. Sherlock was always trying to find something new about the criminal that he could lock away in his mind palace; be it the way his hair looked like a smashed bird’s nest when he woke up in the morning, how his eyelids fluttered slightly in his sleep, or the peaceful look on his face that only appeared when he was unconscious. Sherlock absentmindedly tugged the blankets back to his side as he closed his eyes again.

               “Sherlock.”

               “What?”

               “Give those back.”

               “What?”

               “The fucking blankets, cunt-face,” the criminal’s extensive vocabulary often slipped when he was tired.

               “Language, James.”

               “Give them back, then.”

               “No.”

               “Don’t make me threaten you. You never know what I’ll do.”

               “I’m shaking,” Sherlock found it extremely amusing when James tried to act more menacing than he meant, as though he needed to make up for loving someone with more malice.

               James finally opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbow, staring down at the detective, who cracked open an eye to look up at him, “You were certainly shaking last night when I-”

               “Ugh,” Sherlock scoffed as he rolled over, now facing away from James. The criminal grabbed the detective’s shoulder, forcing him onto his back and grinning smugly down at him.

               “Don’t give me that look,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

               “What look, darling?” James asked innocently.

               “You know what look.”

               “I’m afraid I don’t.”

               “I sometimes wonder at the fact that _this_ has lasted so long,” Sherlock gestured to the general area around them.

               “As do I,” James said darkly, squinting at the light coming in through the bedroom window.

               After a moment of silence, Sherlock decided it was time to get up. He pushed James aside playfully as he sat up, earning a mysterious twitch from the criminal.

               Sherlock studied James for a moment as the criminal felt a slight blush creep onto his face. This could surely not mean what Sherlock thought it meant…

               The detective hesitantly reached towards where he had previously touched James; just above the hip.

               “Don’t you da-” James’s threat dissolved into giggles as Sherlock experimentally tickled the criminal’s side.

               The detective pulled back to stare incredulously at James, who had a look of pure horror on his face. Sherlock felt a childish grin of triumph spread across his face as he realized what type of ammo this was.

               “Sherlock Holmes, so help me-”

               Nothing ever became of the threat as Sherlock pounced on James. It didn’t take a genius to discover quickly that James was ticklish _everywhere_ , not just his sides. The detective’s fingers fluttered across the criminal’s half naked body as James writhed underneath him, attempting to subdue the laughter escaping him.

               “No, no! Please stop!” James dissolved into laughter again.

               “Stop what?” Sherlock asked innocently, grinning like a maniac.

               “I will-” James twitched particularly violently as Sherlock hit a sensitive spot, “I will _kill_ you, Sherlock.”

               “Not now that I know your weakness,” Sherlock was starting to laugh, in spite of himself.

               “You fucking…. I will….I will set fire to something, Sherlock!”

               “Once again, I’m shaking.”

               “I…..hate…..you…..” James could barely breathe from laughter.

               “Now, you’ve hurt my feelings,” Sherlock was enjoying being the catty one for once.

               “I swear on pain of death I will….strap a bomb to you and….and….” The look in James’s eyes was a strange mixture of joy, murder, and desperation.

               “And what?”

               “Just...I’ll….damn….”

               “Are you going to beg?”

               “I’ll _never-_ ” James spasmed and was sent into hysterics again as Sherlock upped the intensity of his assault.

               “I’m waiting,” Sherlock said smugly.

               “Mer….merce….” James gasped around his laughter.

               “Pardon?” Sherlock asked in an excruciatingly innocent voice.

               “MERCY!”

               Sherlock finally let up on his assault and James collapsed onto the bed, gasping for air. When he finally sat up, he looked on a gleeful Sherlock with murder in his eyes.

               “You,” he said darkly, “Are going to regret that.”

               Sherlock snorted and found himself dissolving into hysterics as James looked on in disbelief.

               “It’s not that funny!”

               Sherlock chuckled, “It _is_ ,” he gasped.

               “If you speak a _word_ of this to _anyone_ …”

               Sherlock only doubled over, hiding his face in the blankets as he continued to laugh.

               James was getting progressively more upset, “Are you quite finished?” he snapped, crossing his arms. God, he hated being laughed at.

               Sherlock sat up and calmed James’s tone with a stare that was a mixture of amusement, and amazement.

               “The most _dangerous_ criminal in London is _ticklish_?” the detective asked in disbelief.

               “It appears so,” James looked away bitterly.

               “You weren’t ticklish last night.”

               “Obviously not,” James glared at the detective.

               “I’m going to make tea,” Sherlock got up off the bed, still grinning to himself like a fool, and left the room, grabbing his robe on the way out. James only shook his head before following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Not sorry


	23. Surprise

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her flat, her face lighting up with a small smile when she saw the gifts laid out on her coffee table. She didn’t particularly care that Sherlock had broken in (for the third year in a row); all that mattered was that he and John had remembered.

               Setting her things down on the kitchen counter, she entered the living room, approaching the coffee table with the gifts. On top of three boxes of various sizes was a folded note. In Sherlock’s familiar scrawl, it read:

_Happy birthday. John and I are a case; can’t make it to dinner. Many happy returns!_

               Mrs. Hudson sighed slightly as she smiled fondly down at the note. Sherlock never had enjoyed parties. It was also always brought warmth to her heart when she saw that John and Sherlock were alone on a case together, however. Of course, that meant that… James was off doing something destructive somewhere, but she nonetheless liked to see any sign that the good old days weren’t over. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t sure she would ever be convinced that Sherlock and John had always been completely platonic, but it didn’t particularly matter what she thought, either. She could feel a gap growing between the detective and the doctor with each coming day, and anything that even held a possibility of sealing that gap, no matter how small, was welcomed in her mind. She’d rather Sherlock be with John than James. The criminal was no good for anyone, much less Sherlock. Then again, she really had no say in the matter.

               Mrs. Hudson looked down at the gifts again, and realized that there was one extra. She supposed she ought to open them now, as most of the people she was seeing tonight didn’t know Sherlock or John. Curiosity getting the best of her, she reached for the first gift.

               Expertly undoing the lavender paper, she opened the rectangular box inside to reveal a lovely black fountain pen. The note attached read, “From: Sherlock”. Of course he had remembered that she needed a pen. She herself barely remembered even _saying_ she needed one. It was a lovely instrument; heavy and encircled with small silver rings near the top. Likely, it was far too expensive to be appropriate for most tenants to get their landladies, but Sherlock was a special case, she supposed. Mrs. Hudson reached for the next gift, this time a flat, square shaped box.

               _Oh, John. You shouldn’t have_ , she thought as she pulled away the green speckled paper to reveal a box of chocolates. Despite their constant abuse of their flat, she had to admit they were some of the best tenants she had ever had. At least, before they’d brought in a serial killer to torture for a month, and then proceeded to move in with said serial killer. Things tended to be a bit… noisier at night now, as well, but Mrs. Hudson, to be fair, couldn’t say James and Sherlock were the worst she’d had in that department. When this was added to the factor of always jumping when she walked around a corner, and her new habit of systematically checking three times to make sure her door was locked at night, she considered the criminal to be definitely one of her more unpleasant residents. At least, he made her _feel_ unpleasant.

               Who was the third gift from? Perhaps Greg, or Molly? Surely it couldn’t be from the other possibility. Mrs. Hudson imagined the Irishman stepping into her flat to place the gifts with Sherlock and John, and a shiver went down her spine. Being around James was like living in a constant state of missing a step when walking down stairs. Just the thought of those unearthly _eyes_ glancing across her wallpaper seemed so wrong, so disturbing, that Mrs. Hudson was suddenly gripped by an urge to check if her windows were all locked.

               The lettering on the tag was beautiful, but the name it spelled out was not so charming, spelling out the very thing she had dreaded. James had clearly taken his time with it; that kind of calligraphy couldn’t be rushed. It was an excellent wrapping job; the corners were perfectly folded with crisp creases and minimal tape. The box was cube shaped and wrapped in light green paper, topped with a silver bow. She would have guessed someone like him would gravitate towards dark red or green paper; something dark and seductive, rather than simple and domestic like this was. This was a gift that said, ‘regards’, not ‘regards from a serial killer’. James seemed to have gone all out, but Mrs. Hudson was still afraid to open it, wondering if some sort of bomb would go off if she did.

               Finally taking the paper off, she stared in disbelief at the gift. It was a candle. Just a candle. Lilac scented. She stared for a moment before (against her better judgment) finally taking the lid off and smelling it.

               It smelled like…lilac.

               She shook her head before setting it back on the table. If this was an apology, or a peace offering, she wasn’t sure she was going to take it. She still had the occasional nightmare about the criminal; waking up barely able to breathe and think straight. Mrs. Hudson had experience with men who liked to intimidate, and she would be damned if she was going to be an easy target. Gifts would not win her over.

               Perhaps James wanted to change. Perhaps Sherlock had been a good influence. However, just because he was now living with them did not mean that he was redeemed in her mind. He had hurt too many people to ever deserve full forgiveness, but Mrs. Hudson was willing to… be more acquainted, if he was as well.

              She would admit, whatever the criminal’s intentions, she was surprised.


	24. Prison

Sherlock laid himself down on the couch, a small amount of dim light from the windows illuminating his porcelain skin in the otherwise dark room. It was a quiet, dreary day in London, and both John and James were out, leaving the flat eerily silent.

               It was the perfect time to do this. The detective had been waiting for some alone time to take care of what needed to be done, and in order to do so there had to be zero distractions in the flat. He clasped his palms together under his chin, almost as if in prayer, and closed his eyes, entering his mind palace.

               _Sherlock entered the dirty, echoing room that contained the staircase he needed. He glanced down over the iron railings to see if the bottom was visible. Of course, it wasn’t. He would just have to start moving._

_As the detective descended down levels and levels of concrete, around and around the staircase, he felt a strong sense of apprehension- he hadn’t used this room since he and James had broken up. He started to feel the dampness of basement air on his skin as he step by step went deeper into the abyss. The walls were getting darker, with mold growing in patches and water stains growing more and more obvious. The air grew colder, and he almost felt goose bumps. Although, perhaps that wasn’t only the chill._

_Finally, he reached the bottom. It was a claustrophobic, tiny little space. Sherlock felt as though he was in a small cave, from the miniscule amount of light that actually made it down from the top of the spiral staircase. A single door was in front of him, concrete and deceptively nondescript. He grasped the knob and turned it._

_“Sherly, you’re back,” echoed the voice of a dirty form, crouched in the corner of the room. Sherlock swallowed nervously as he entered the padded room._

_He had never intended for this to happen. Sherlock wasn’t sure why he had even kept mind palace James this long. All he knew was that he needed to delete him. The real James must never find out. And how could he? It was Sherlock’s mind, right?_

_“…James,” Sherlock acknowledged._

_“Look what you’ve done to me,” the madman snarled, the chains around his neck clinking slightly, “You’d better fix this, Sherlock.”_

_The detective’s forehead scrunched as he tried to delete the monster. James only flickered for a moment in a brief flash of color before going back to normal, looking angrier than ever._

_“I will burn you,” the criminal’s voice echoed, “I will burn the heart out of you.”_

_God, why couldn’t Sherlock delete him? He had the real James in reality now. That was all that mattered. As far as he was concerned, this monster no longer existed._

_“Attaboy,” James seemed to comment on his thoughts._

_Sherlock took a step back for every step the madman took towards him, eyes black with thirst for blood._

_The detective decided on a new (admittedly feeble) course of action._

_“I love you, James.”_

_Mind palace James only stared, cocking his head to the side as though Sherlock was a strange creature he found crawling in the mud._

_“That’s adorable, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock sighed in frustration._ Why _couldn’t he delete this? Of course, it may not be completely rational to delete some of the ways James had wronged him, but it was his choice, was it not? Were he and James not in love?_

_Suddenly, the detective realized how unbelievably stupid that sounded._

_However, just because he still_ had _reasons to be careful around James didn’t mean that he wanted this monster in his mind palace. He would rather have an accurate version. Though, from past attempts, he thought that futile, as well._

_“Remember when I cut you open, Sherly?”_

_“Shut up,” Sherlock ordered. He came here to think. Why couldn’t he think?_

_“What if I did it again? Remember all the blood?”_

_“I said, shut up.”_

_“Remember when you jumped off the hospital? Remember when Johnny cried? That was so funny…”_

_“SHUT. UP.”_

_“Ooh, he’s angry now. I think it’s sexy when you’re angry. Really gets me off.”_

_Sherlock tried to block James out. He closed his eyes in concentration, trying harder than ever to move the room to a file somewhere, deleting mind palace James in the process, but he couldn’t do it. Part of him wondered if it was because he didn’t want to. No… he was in control, wasn’t he? This was his mind._

_“Not now that you’ve got all these_ feelings _, Sherly. You should be like me, instead.”_

 _He wasn’t attached to this James, though! This was a monster; the man who’d strapped John to a bomb, who’d blown up a blind woman and killed countless others, who’d stabbed him in a blind rage and terrorized Mrs. Hudson for kicks. This James no longer existed, or, at least, not as much as he used to. Was it wrong for Sherlock to just believe that? If this still was buried deep within James, what were the chances it would resurface? Not likely, he seemed so_ different _…_

_“I’m gonna skin Johnny alive, Sherly. I’m gonna make you watch,” James’s voice had an eerie, musical lilt to it._

_Sherlock tried again, harder than ever, to overcome James; pressing his hands to his temples for maximum concentration._

_“SHERLOCK!”_

_James was right in his face, and the detective could see every detail of his face, from his dirty hair, to the slight shine of his skin, to his fathomless eyes._

_“You can’t get rid of me,” James whispered madly, “I’ll always be here, little angel.”_

_Sherlock left, and kept looking behind him as he ascended the staircase again._


	25. Embarassed

Mary casually sat down on the couch, as James took a seat across from her in a stray chair. Sherlock, from the kitchen, stole a glance at the two of them, frowning slightly in curiosity. The blonde had taken to these little visits when she knew John wasn’t around to worry about her, and the detective had noticed that James grinned a little bit brighter when she was around.

               It was rather… cute. Sherlock hadn’t asked James about it yet, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the criminal liked her because of her name. Had he never met someone else named Mary before? Sherlock supposed that he never remembered the names of most of his employees, and had never been very prone to socializing, so it was probable. It was so irrational, though! Especially for James. Although, Sherlock supposed, the criminal probably knew that, and chose to ignore it. After all, he was living with a detective. James’s track record for following his mind over sentiment was worsening by the day.

               “So, you promised me gritty details?” James asked with a sideways grin. Mary crossed her arms in mock offense, shaking her head.

               “How inappropriate, James!” Mary said before grinning, “I’ll have you _know_ that John is a _fantastic_ date!”

               Sherlock snickered in the kitchen, and Mary added a “Get back to your experiments!” to the end of her previous statement.

               “I’m sure Johnny has fantastic dating capabilities,” James said smugly.

               “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

               “None at all!”

               “He gave me roses, we had dinner-”

               “I only got one rose,” Sherlock muttered from the kitchen, enjoying the pointless conversation in spite of himself.

               “Be careful what you wish for…” James vaguely threatened the detective, and Sherlock had a fleeting image of 221B covered entirely in roses flash through his mind palace.

               “Alright, alright you two,” Mary scolded, “Let me finish.”

               “Right, you had roses, had dinner; so creative,” James drawled.

               “Well, what did _you_ two do?” Mary inquired.

               Since they couldn’t very well tell the blonde that James had given Sherlock a crime scene for the holiday, and obviously had to keep their bedroom activities private, it took a moment before James responded. Mary still didn’t know the true nature of who the criminal was, and James intended to keep it that way. All she had right now was the vague sense of fear John had attempted to instill in her, and the criminal was determined to prove him wrong.

               “Sherly wrote me a song,” James grinned at the now slightly blushing detective in the kitchen, who was clinking glassware far louder than was necessary.

               “A song? That’s so sweet! What did you get him?”

               “Um,” James looked at the floor, feeling a blush creep onto his cheeks as thoughts of riding crops and roaming hands flashed through his mind.

               “No!” Mary exclaimed, starting to laugh, “You dog! What did you do?”

               “No no no! It wasn’t like that!” James was rapidly backpedalling.

               “Did you do it in John’s bed? Did you use the riding crop? Did you do it on this couch?” Mary fired questions at James rapidly as the criminal put his face into his hands. When he was finally able to breathe from laughter, he started to answer as Sherlock left the kitchen to join the conversation.

               “No, we-” James chuckled, “we did _not_ do it in John’s bed. Erm, riding crop…” the criminal looked at Sherlock, eyes sparkling, “possibly.”

               “You mean yes,” Mary was beaming, clapping her hands together as silent laughter shook her body.    

               “Oh, yes,” Sherlock confirmed matter of factly, and James shot him a death glare.

               “And to the couch question…” James continued, “Well, not on the day _in question_ …”

               Mary’s hands shot off of the couch where they had been resting, “Wait, so you _have_ done it on this couch?”

               James and Sherlock both nodded solemnly.

               Mary slowly, dramatically got off the couch, pulling up a chair instead and brushing off the parts of her that had touched it. Sherlock watched James chuckle with bemusement.

               “ _How many times?_ ” the blonde asked, horror struck.

               “Well…” James trailed off awkwardly, looking to Sherlock as he thought, “On that couch, maybe-”

               “Fourteen times,” Sherlock finished and James felt his face grow hot again.

               “ _Fourteen?_ ” Mary’s jaw fell to the ground, “Does John-?”

               “How the _hell_ is _John_ supposed to know?” Sherlock asked incredulously, “Morning, John! By the way, James and I had rough sex on that sofa twice last night!”

               “Well, it would be nice to know!” Mary exclaimed defensively, “I mean, how often do you _wash_ your couch?”

               No one had an answer to that. James just put a hand to his face, shaking his head.

               “ _Why_ do you want to know these things?” he asked Mary.

               “I like to confirm for myself every once in a while that you and Sherlock aren’t giant virgins,” Mary winked, “But as _fascinating_ as sex is, I personally prefer smaller things; moments, you know?”

               James rolled his eyes at the sentimental statement, but to his disdain Sherlock chimed in.

               “Oh yes, I agree.”

               “Oh do you?” Mary asked slyly, silently begging for him to continue.

               “You want to see one of the ‘smaller things’ I learned about James a few days ago?” Sherlock smirked as he started towards the criminal. James went wide eyed with horror.

               “No, wait, Sherlock, don’t-”

               The detective was on James before he could finish his sentence. The criminal dissolved into giggles, falling out of his chair and trying fruitlessly to escape as Sherlock tickled him. Mary was almost as helplessly victim to laughter as James was.

               “Wait, Sherlock!” the blonde stopped the detective for a half second, “Let me try.”

               “No! Mary, wait-!” James’s protest was useless as the blonde descended on him. The criminal writhed on the floor until, after a few minutes, Sherlock and Mary were both too consumed by laughter to continue their assault. James, gasping, glared daggers at the devilish looking detective.

               “You,” the criminal panted as he stood up, “Are going to regret that.” He didn’t think he’d ever been this embarrassed in his adult life. How the hell was he supposed to keep up his reputation if-

               Mary’s eyes were glittering with mischief as she grinned at him, chuckling. Dammit.

               Alright, then. Since it was _Mary_ , he would let it slide. She wouldn’t tell John. And Sherlock was… Sherlock. James closed his eyes in resignation as he realized he had no other option besides forgiving both of them. Well, he had other options, he just chose to ignore them.

               “This is the _best_ blackmail _ever_ ,” Mary teased. As if she knew anything about blackmail.

               “I’m shaking,” James rolled his eyes, finally letting them come to a rest on Sherlock with a dark glare. The detective grinned like an impish child.

               “Oh, Sherlock,” Mary frowned in mock sympathy as she turned to leave, “Looks like no riding crop for you, tonight.” The detective snorted and James rolled his eyes again, shoving him in annoyance.

               “It was nice seeing you,” the criminal called after Mary.

               The blonde grinned over her shoulder at the pair of them, “You, too.”


	26. Revenge

_Is everything set? –MM_

_Affirmative.- JM_

_Is he already there? –MM_

_Just walked in.- JM_

James glanced up from his phone as Sherlock entered the flat, hanging up his coat and scarf before raising an eyebrow at the criminal.

               “I thought you said you had things to do,” the detective said slowly. He missed James when he didn’t come on cases- it wasn’t the same with only John anymore, now that James was in the picture. Had the criminal skipped out on him?

               “I do,” James answered smoothly, reading Mary’s next message.

               _Make sure he doesn’t open it until I’m there! –MM_

_Of course. –JM_

Sherlock was slightly hurt at the criminal’s nonchalance, “If you were only going to text,” he said coldly, “then why didn’t you come with?”

               James put his phone down and started towards the detective, a charming smile spreading across his lips.

               “Oh, Sherly. Did you miss me?” the criminal asked flirtatiously.

               “I was fine,” Sherlock answered unblinkingly, and James frowned, realizing that the detective was hurt.

               “Sherlock,” the criminal began matter of factly, “I could hardly plan a kidnapping at a murder scene, now could I?”

               Sherlock huffed, turning on his heel to march into the kitchen. This did not coincide well with James’s plan. He quickly devised a method of distraction.

               “Sherly,” the criminal murmured seductively, making the detective freeze in place. It wasn’t said very loudly, but when James spoke Sherlock always heard, no matter the volume.

               The detective turned his head to the side, looking over his shoulder slightly, prompting the criminal to continue.

               “Why don’t you let me make it up to you?” James continued as Sherlock slowly turned back around to face him, a tiny smirk creeping onto his features.

               “I don’t forgive very easily,” Sherlock murmured, lowering his forehead to rest against James’s as they wrapped their arms around one another. Now that the criminal was against him, and the detective could feel James’s heartbeat against his chest, Sherlock was already forgetting why he had been unhappy in the first place. Damn emotions.

               James smiled to himself as they embraced each other. Sherlock most likely thought he was smiling because they were together, when in reality, the criminal was happy because of sweet, sweet, _revenge_. Of course, his heart still hammered against his ribcage for the detective, so poor Sherly would never see it coming. He just hoped they didn’t get too far before Mary showed up…

               Just as Sherlock gently brought their lips together, the blonde in question decided to burst through the door. The detective couldn’t help but growl slightly in frustration as James hastily pulled away from him, without a hint of hesitation. Sherlock felt his foul mood rapidly returning.

               “Am I interrupting something?” Mary asked innocently. James grinned at her brightly.

               “Not at all!” his voice was dripping with honey.

               “Oh, good,” the blonde said as she took a seat in Sherlock’s chair, ignoring the detective’s scowl, “because I’ve been _dying_ to catch up!” James casually sat down in what was usually John’s chair, still grinning devilishly at Mary.

               “Who let you in?” Sherlock asked incredulously. If it had been Mrs. Hudson, they were going to have a little talk later.

               Mary waved her hand dismissively, “Not important. Do you mind making us some tea?”

               “Yes, darling, some tea would be _divine_ ,” James added, only further infuriating the detective. Sherlock huffed before stalking into the kitchen, not noticing that Mary had stuffed her hand in her mouth to keep from laughing.

               “Did you two not see each other four days ago?” the detective complained as he rummaged through cabinets.

               “A week, Sherlock. It’s been a week. Are you jealous?” James asked sweetly, thoroughly enjoying himself. He had to admit, it was quite attractive when the detective was angry.

               “Jealous?” Sherlock frowned as he searched for their tea, “No, I am _not_ jealous. I—why are you watching me make tea?”

               James had turned completely around in his chair, watching the detective search through cabinets with mischievous, glittering eyes- never a good sign. The fact that the usually tranquil Mary was mirroring his expression was all the more worrisome.

               “We just like watching you,” Mary lied, completely straightfaced. James snorted at the ridiculous cover.

               Sherlock slowly nodded, beginning to accept the fact that any moment now something would blow up.

               “Right,” the detective said doubtfully, hand on the handle of one last cabinet, “well, I know that I tend to be inter-” Sherlock never finished his sentence, as a wave of plastic descended upon him.

               James and Mary laughed like hyenas as hundreds of ping pong balls tumbled like an avalanche out of the cabinet onto the spluttering detective, clacking onto the floor and off of every other solid surface in sight. It was possibly the most stupid thing James had ever done, but he couldn’t deny the entertainment it brought. Both of their stomachs were starting to hurt from laughter, and Mary was actually starting to cry slightly, she was laughing so hard. The small white spheres were now coating the entire kitchen floor, and a few rolled into the living room as the tide finally slowed down. Sherlock’s jaw was agape as he took a moment to stare silently at the wreckage surrounding him, as though it had personally insulted him. James and Mary continued to laugh like children.

               The detective opened his mouth to speak, before licking his lips and closing it again. Jesus Christ, this was Jim Moriarty. The criminal mastermind. Jim Moriarty had just pulled a _prank_ on him.

               _What have I gotten into?_ Was the first thought that crossed the detective’s mind, as he shook his head at the criminal, who was still chuckling, eyes glinting. The James he had first met would never have done a thing like this. In fact, James now did a lot of things that were out of his normal range.

               Sherlock decided then that he liked Mary. As much as it hurt having her take John only further away from him, he liked what she did to James. The criminal now had not one, but two people who brought light to his eyes. He had two people who made him _human._ Perhaps Sherlock was just becoming sentimental himself, though. Damned feelings.

               The two consultants stared at each other a moment, expressions more different than night and day.

               “Well?” Sherlock finally asked, arms spread wide.

               “Well what?” James asked innocently.

               “Why-?”

               “Do you remember what I asked of you when you first found out I was ticklish?”

               “I seem to remember a threat, not a request.”

               James’s eyes darkened as he answered, “All the better to obey, my dear.”

               “So this was because-”

               “Yes. You were to tell no one, and you disobeyed, therefore…” the criminal gestured to the white spheres covering the floor grandly.

               “I’m not cleaning this up,” Sherlock crossed his arms in defiance.

               “You started it.”

               “John can do it,” Mary chimed in brightly, eliciting a small smile from James.

               Sherlock was silent for an uncomfortably long moment, actually only pretending to be angry at this point, and the criminal softened his grin as he made his way to the detective, kicking ping pong balls out of the way as he went.

               James didn’t let Sherlock’s glare faze him. He never did. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was one of the things the detective secretly liked about him. The criminal rose up on his toes slightly to give a quick peck on Sherlock’s lips. The detective was still glaring when he pulled away.

               “We’re even,” James whispered, sending a shiver down Sherlock’s spine (though he would never admit it).

               The detective sighed, “Remember when you used to _act_ dangerous?” he said lowly enough that Mary wouldn’t hear.

               “Yeah,” James murmured, “wasn’t that boring?”


	27. Mint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Just a little preliminary note- this chapter will be from the point of view of the blonde woman who gave Jim the piece of gum during his trial in Reichenbach. No, she will not be returning after this chapter, this is kinda abstract; more meant to illustrate than to move plot forward, but give it a shot.

The blonde entered the lift briskly, her hair pinned up in a bun so tight that many seeing her that day would wonder if it hurt her. Her suit was so crisply pressed that she looked almost like a walking mannequin, straight out of a shop window. Her movements were mechanical enough to provide only further support for this theory.

               Yes, she was a driven woman. She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she needed to do in order to get it. Anyone who assumed otherwise by her reserved demeanor was quickly proved wrong and put into their place. She was admired by as many as she was feared by, moving up in her career path in a manner of which any professor would be proud of.

               The woman in question pursed her lips as she glanced at her watch impatiently, as if to scold time for moving forwards without her initial permission. She stared straight ahead, not acknowledging the other man accompanying her; at least, not until she smelled it.

               She noticed it a millisecond after she’d heard his chewing, and for a brief moment of sheer terror she worried that it was _him_. The man next to her was approximately the right height, with brown hair…

               “You alright, miss?”

               The blonde shamelessly let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. _Thank God_. The accent didn’t match. Flustered and slightly pale, she turned to the portly, balding man next to her and gave a quick, “Yes, I’m quite alright, thank you,” with a smile that she hoped didn’t look as nervous as it felt.

               She took a deep breath as the lift continued to rise. She needed to stop this. But _oh, God_ , she was so terrified of him…

               It had all started with that _damn_ court case. She had seen the papers before she’d known she was going to be involved, of course, and remembered marveling at the photos in the papers of the dark eyed man sitting with the crown jewels. Just sitting there. Why would anyone commit such a ridiculous crime? She still wondered that to this day, though she had several theories, none of which brought her peace of mind.

               The blonde had dwelled on this more than she’d wanted to, but it made her feel less… vulnerable if she came up with theories. The first was that he’d had a greater scheme- something that had required this madness as a step in the plan. The second was that he had done it for the publicity- perhaps as a threat to someone. The third, which she found the most likely, and disturbing, was that he did it for the fun of creating a disruption. Through the pure love of chaos.

               _It doesn’t matter_ , she’d told herself over and over again, to no avail. _Those eyes_ … she couldn’t seem to get them out of her mind. Every corner she turned, she saw them, heart leaping until a concerned citizen or indifferent one snapped her back to reality.

               She remembered walking into the courtroom and seeing the man in the grey suit. He’d worn a blank stare; as though he wasn’t seeing a crowd of people, but a computer screen, or a brick wall. Even when he’d looked at _her_ , and spoken to her, those eyes had seemed empty. His eyes were like a dark ocean; impossibly deep and filled with leviathans of the unimaginable and most twisted sort.

               He hadn’t even seemed to _care_ that he was in a courtroom, to be honest. Yet he was dressed _immaculately_. Why would someone who cared for nothing put so much effort towards their appearance? The only conclusion she could come to was boredom.

               Yes, the man in front of her must have been very bored. Though not bored as most people were. His manner of boredom to her screamed nothing but ‘madman’. When she had walked towards him, she had felt as though she was approaching a wild animal. Something reptilian and alien that would lash out at her if she did a single thing that didn’t strike it’s fancy. He almost reminded her of the dragons she’d read about in storybooks when she was little. The princesses in those books had been able to tell the dragons riddles to save their lives. She wondered if telling this monster a riddle could have saved hers.

               Her fear was completely irrational. Of course, he had no reason to come after her; and it had been so long since the trial. Most likely, he’d forgotten what she looked like. Although a small part of her doubted that.

               Perhaps part of the reason she was so unsettled by the man had been the fact that his confidence was not only present, but that it was well grounded. Because that monster, that clearly guilty monster, had escaped its cage. He had gotten off free. She knew… she just _knew_ that he had done something to the jury. It wasn’t his actual crime that made her shudder so, but the fact that he got off free so effortlessly. He walked the streets now, and every time the blonde walked a darker street she worried she would see a man in a grey suit walking towards her with those fathomless eyes. She imagined he would smell like hair product and mint, just as on the day of the trial.

               It was hardly an off-putting smell. Most women would find it attractive, but whenever she caught even a slight whiff of it on someone, she became nauseous. Every cursed time a coworker or a friend or even a stranger chewed mint gum, of all things, she flashed back to that horrible day.

               She hadn’t even been sure that he was speaking to her at first, but when she finally turned her head towards him, she knew she would never forget the voice or the face it belonged to. He had asked her, ever so _softly_ , to reach into his pocket, and she had been so stricken by the strange request that she had complied without even slight protest. It had only been when she had felt the small, warm tablet against his leg that she had understood the request. After removing her hand, she already had felt a violent urge to wash it, but then he made things worse. He had smirked at her; actually _smirked_ at her, and stuck out his tongue for her to put the gum on.

               It had been the worst experience in her entire life. The heat of his mouth on her already tainted hand and the wetness of his tongue that had accidentally touched her finger… _God…_

               Then, in that horrifically soft voice of his, he had thanked her, still smirking and biting into the gum with an obnoxiousness that could only be equaled by a teenage girl.

               He was, in traditional aspects, extremely attractive. He was the type of man that she would have read about in a book and fallen head over heels for. The smooth criminal; the villain one couldn’t help but root for. But seeing him there, in the flesh, was so, so different. That monster hadn’t been a fairytale. In print, he read as something dangerously beautiful, but in person all of her instincts screamed nothing else but to _get away_. His entire aura said nothing but _predator_. They were all sheep to people like him, and unlike the movies, the lions weren’t prone to pity.

               The blonde exited the lift as it drew to a stop, and went about her day.


	28. Case

“Sherlock, that is possibly the worst idea I have ever heard.”

               The detective glared at John as James raised a thin brow in challenge at the doctor.

               “Do you have a better plan? If so, please, enlighten us, _Johnny_ ,” the criminal sneered.

               John took a deep breath to steady himself, “Look…” he paused awkwardly, “…James, it’s easy to approve the plan when _you_ don’t have to worry about being the bait.”

               “Who said you were bait?” Sherlock sounded alarmed.

               “I-”

               “ _I’ll_ be the bait,” James announced smoothly, “We’re wasting precious time. I say we follow Sherlock’s plan. It’s the only one we’ve got.” He looked pointedly at John as he finished.

               John sighed, “Fine.” He hated to admit, the criminal had a point. And he personally had _no_ issue with Moriarty being the bait. Maybe if they were lucky, he wouldn’t make it-

               _No_ , John scolded himself, _Stop it now._ Sherlock loved James. Hurting Moriarty hurt Sherlock. Maybe this would be the case where they would finally learn how to get along.

               The doctor sincerely doubted that.

<br />

               The killer had dashed into a nearby shopping mall. Of course, there were a ridiculous amount of exits and places to hide within such a large facility, so they needed an effective way to weed the killer out.

               This was where James came in. His job was to find a way to get the killer’s attention and lead him back to John and Sherlock, trapping their prisoner in a sort of triangle. At that point, all three would draw their weapons, force the killer to his knees, and call the police.

               Easy peasy.

               Sherlock had calculated 14 different scenarios that could result from this plan. 13 resulted in a death of some sort. 2 resulted in his own death.

               Not the best odds, but he’d had far worse. He cocked his gun and silently, the three men slipped into the darkened shopping mall.

               <br />

               James’s feet fell silently as he flitted from shadow to shadow, always ready to shoot in case the killer was feeling bold. He and Sherlock had been on some mad cases together, but this probably took the cake.

               His neck snapped to the side as his dark eyes examined a lingerie store, where he’d thought he’d seen a shadow move out of the corner of his eye. James brought his gun slightly closer to him as he slowly started moving forwards again, his breathing ridiculously steady for the situation he was in. Then again, he wasn’t ordinary. The criminal knew how to suppress fear.

               Or, most of the time he did. Now was not the time to think of that, though.

               Licking his lips, he prepared to turn a corner, glancing behind him as he did so. Ordinarily, he would have already known exactly where the killer was hiding out. James prided himself in his skills of reading people (along with many other things), so such knowledge would have been easy to come by. However, when one of the truly mad ones came along, things were less predictable. He could see why Sherlock tended to like the more cracked cases, too.

               Without another moment’s hesitation, James whipped around the corner, almost completely silent, still hugging the wall. Standing in front of him, in the center of the hall, was a thin figure. Its hands were on its hips, and it appeared to be facing away from the criminal, who was still pointing a gun at his back.

               _Small pack on the left hip._

_Curly hair- washed too often._

_Appears to be in uniform._

James barely stopped himself from groaning aloud. A security guard. A damn _security guard_ was standing here, in the middle of the hall, unaware that a mass murderer- no, _two_ mass murderers (though one of them admittedly was more civil) were loose in the mall.

               Repressing a sigh, James lowered his gun and spun on his heel to retreat back the way he came. Just as he did so, an agonizingly loud voice spoke out from behind him.

               “What do you think you’re doing?”

               James closed his eyes in resignation, calming himself for a moment before slowly turning around to grin sharply at the man, his gun remaining low at his side.

               _Star Trek fan._

_Body of a twelve year old._

_Is his hand shaking? Jesus, they have low standards. Poor thing doesn’t stand a chance._

James laughed nervously, putting a hand to his hair, “Well, this is awkward…”

               “Who the hell are you?” the man demanded, eyes narrowed.

               “I’m, uh,” James looked at the floor nervously, before meeting the eyes of the guard, “Look, it’s not what it looks like.”

               “Oh?” the man asked sarcastically, “Then what is it?” His trembling hand was reaching for his gun as James fought to not roll his eyes.

               “I’m, well,” James explained awkwardly, “I’m cosplaying. There’s a convention in a few weeks and-”

               “Oh, thank God!” the guard said loudly, making James cringe, “You know for a second, I thought that was a real gun?”

               _Jesus Christ._

James laughed, strolling towards the guard, “You like it? Made it myself.”

               “Yeah, man, it’s great! But listen, you really can’t be in here.”

               “Eh, what can I say? I _live_ for danger.” James was beginning to wonder how long this conversation was going to go on for. He didn’t think he could do this much longer.

               The guard laughed nervously, “Well, maybe I’ll see you at the convention. I’ve been thinking of going-”

               “Oh _have_ you?” James interrupted him, wanting to speed up the conversation. Slightly impatient, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t both about to get scalped.

               “Yeah. Hey, listen; can I see your gun? I just want to see how you made it. You know, reference and all.”

               “Of course,” James said with a slight dark undertone. He held up the weapon, tilting it back and forth as the guard’s eyes raked over it. “It was easy, really, all I used was some Styrofoam and some-”

               Without another word, he brought the gun in a sweeping motion against the guard’s head, toppling him like a tree. James examined the now unconscious guard’s face with empty eyes as he tilted the man’s face towards him with a foot.

               Shaking his head in disgust, James slipped back into the shadows.

<br />

               “Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

               The detective sighed, “Yes, John?”

               “It’s been a long time,” the doctor growled.

               “Can’t rush these things.”

               “Jesus Christ, Sherlock-”

               “What does a religious figure nailed to a board of wood have to do with-?”

               “Because, _Sherlock_ ,” John was losing patience, and they had been waiting in the dark for over half an hour, “If this plan doesn’t work, _we_ are going to be nailed to boards of wood.”

               Sherlock was silent for a moment, contemplating the likelihood of this. Considering they’d only had a pile of the organs and skins of about 10 victims to go off of, it seemed that being nailed to a board of wood would be a blessing.

               “He’ll come through,” John winced, hearing the detective’s voice give slightly as he spoke of James. The doctor still wasn’t convinced that having a murderer hunt down a murderer was the best idea.

               Suddenly, a loud crash and what was likely a shop alarm went off, making both detective and blogger jump slightly and quickly mold themselves as far into the wall as they could, drawing their loaded weapons to their chests.

               The game was back on.

<br />

               James was weaving in and out of clothing racks, trying to remain in the shadows as much as possible. The criminal distanced himself further and further from the now broken shop window, eyes nearly black as they raked his surroundings for the figure he searched for.

               _Come on, darling_ , he thought, _Come out, come out, wherever you are…_

               He decided to speed things up, “Come out and play, darling,” the criminal drawled.

               Silence, then a voice like rose thorns.

               “Don’t,” the woman’s voice was laced with venom, “Call me darling.”

               James’s eyebrows shot up with intrigue. It was rare to find women serial killers. Much rarer to find them this twisted. She was clearly speaking coherently.

               _Hm. Sadist. Boring._

               Well, at least Sherlock would get a kick out of it. Moving to stand just outside a beam of moonlight, he spoke again.

               “Make me.”

               An animalistic scream ( _Perhaps not so civilized, after all_ ) echoed through the store, and dimly James wondered if Sherlock and John could hear it before he was tackled to the ground. His gun having fallen out of his hand as he fell, James’s fingers quickly closed around the wrist of the woman that held a glint of silver, keeping the knife well away from his face. Given that she seemed so out of it, he doubted he’d have to worry about other weapons.

               The criminal without warning pulled her closer to him, crashing his skull to hers. With the killer temporarily discombobulated, James threw her off of him, being careful to leave the knife in her possession. She needed a weapon if she was to come after him.

               “See you around, _darling_ ,” he purred the challenge as he left the store quickly, perfectly aware of the shadow following him at a distance.

<br />

               John breathed a sigh of relief as James came into his line of vision. Maybe soon this case would be over and he could go home to Mary.

               The doctor had moved out of 221B a week ago, and in a way he missed being woken up at 2 am with violin or an experiment gone wrong. What he missed more, however, was what he’d used to have with Sherlock. Being on this case was doing more to remind him that the good old days were over than to prove they were still alive.

               James was now right in between he and Sherlock, and John’s muscles tensed as he prepared to capture the killer. Any moment now…

               Even in the dark, it was clear that the criminal’s air of confidence was fading. She had been following James a moment ago; where the hell did she go?

               James decided to try to provoke her, “Darling, why don’t you come out, hm?”

               “James,” John hissed.

               “John,” the criminal snapped back.

               Silence fell again, and Sherlock had just about had enough. The detective, completely fed up, jumped out of the shadows to face James.

               “Where is he?” Sherlock demanded.

               “It’s a she,” James explained, “And a moment ago, _she_ was following me.”

               “You _lost_ her?” John was incredulous.

               “It seems _she_ lost _me_ , Johnny.”

               “Oh, don’t be stupid,” Sherlock sneered, putting his hands to his temples and closing his eyes, pulling up a map of the mall that he had memorized when they entered. With where they were now, there were approximately eight stores she could be in. That didn’t include the utility closets and other hidden places that were bound to litter the place; _God_ , they had been stupid. And by ‘they’, Sherlock meant everyone in the party but himself.

               John merely glanced at Sherlock before continuing his rant at James, “…But how the hell did you lose track of her? I thought you were supposed to be good with this type of thing!”

               The criminal rolled his eyes, “I don’t _usually_ get my hands dirty, Johnny. It’s why I make a point to stand at least two meters away from you at all times.”

               “Oh, clever,” John nodded sarcastically, “That was very clever. Gold star. If you hate getting your hands dirty so much, why come with us?”

               James was fuming, “Because of Sherlock,” he said in a dangerously even voice, “Do you remember what I told you before I moved in?”

               John scoffed. Of course he remembered. James had told him that if he tried to take Sherlock away, the criminal would ‘use his bones as toothpicks’. James had to know it was an impossible threat to follow up on, surely. Even John saw that. If James killed him, he’d never be forgiven by Sherlock… right?

               “I’m shaking. You know, for someone who acts the victim so often, you sure get a kick out of bullying other people into doing what you want.”

               James’s eyes darkened, “Name one time I have ever tried to play the victim. Sherlock, have I ever tried to play the victim, to my own advantage?”

               “Irrelevant.”

               “Sherlock,” John spoke up, “Has James ever tried to make you feel guilty to make himself feel better?”

               “Sherlock,” James butted in, “Is John correct in saying that I enjoy bullying other people, to achieve my own ends?”

               John turned back to James, “You know, you’ve got a lot of nerve for someone who-”

               “SHUT UP! Everyone shut up! I’m trying to think and there’s a maniac loose in the building and you two can’t get past your _stupid, ordinary conflicts_! Do me and the rest of the intellectual world a favor and _be quiet_ ,” Sherlock put his hands back to his temples, an eerie silence falling over the group. James turned away from John, suddenly taking a great interest in the weapon he carried, while John studied the wall.

               Sherlock, after what felt like an eternity, opened his eyes and set off down the corridor. James was the first to follow, with John bringing up the rear. They were now in an average sized sitting area on the ground floor of the mall. Dark shop windows surrounded the group in a semi circle, with a path to the center of the mall on their left.

               John took out a torch, and Sherlock copied as James watched. The doctor and the detective shined the lights into the shop windows, one by one, looking for any signs of movement. Sherlock and James drifted towards the center of the mall as John worked more slowly and thoroughly, wanting to make sure that nothing was going to come up behind them.

               Just as he was convinced it was time to catch up to Sherlock and Moriarty, the doctor felt something wet on the back of his neck. He froze in his tracks, heartbeat picking up and adrenaline starting to flow through his veins. Slowly, he brought his hand to where he had felt something drip, and then shined the torch on his fingers. They were red.

               Licking his lips slowly, he shined the light of the torch above his head.

               Hanging off the railings was a young girl’s body. A long, jagged wound ran all the way down from her collarbone to her lower abdomen, and John had to fight the urge to gag as he noticed that her organs were starting to spill out of it.

               “Sherlock?” John said quietly, but loud enough that the detective, who still wasn’t too far ahead, would hear.

               Sherlock rushed over to the doctor, with James at his heels.

               “Look at this,” John gestured to the body.

               James squinted, “That’s the girl who attacked me.”

               “Did she gut herself?” John wondered.

               Sherlock shook his head, “No.”

               Suddenly, realization struck James.

               “How many security guards did you two see tonight?” the criminal asked.

               Silence.

               “None, why?” John finally asked.

               “I know who our killer is.”

               Sherlock had already made the connection, a smirk spreading across his face “Posing as a night guard. Not bad.”

<br />

               James was dismayed to find that the guard’s body was no longer where he had (foolishly) left it. Nonetheless, he motioned Sherlock and John forward into the darkened corridor.

               “Look who’s back,” a voice echoed from the darkness, making the group stop in their tracks.

               “Who are you?” Sherlock demanded.

               “Me? I’m the chosen one.”

               _Schizophrenic_ , Sherlock and James thought simultaneously.

               “Who chose you?” Sherlock asked, determined to keep the killer talking until they could locate him.

               “… Shut up!” the voice almost had a tinge of panic in it now.

               “Why did you kill that girl?” James asked.

               “…Because the voice told me to,” the guard’s voice sounded weaker now, and Sherlock had determined that he was hiding inside the music store a few paces ahead of them. The detective motioned the other two forward as James kept talking.

               “Why do you listen to the voice?”

               “Because it scares me, okay? I… I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore! I mean, if I hear it in my head, it must be real, right?”

               James took a moment before responding, and to his dismay John jumped in.

               “Look, we’re going to get you help, okay? Just come out unarmed and we’ll get you help,” the doctor said gently.

               “NO!” the guard’s temper changed in the blink of an eye, “Bring back the other one. The one that knocked me out.”

               “…I beg pardon?” James asked, confused.

               “I want you. The other two have to go.”

               James took a step forwards, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist, stopping him. The criminal turned around with determined eyes.

               “Let me go. I’ll get him.”

               The detective frowned, reluctant in letting the criminal enter a darkened room with such a maniac.

               “Sherlock,” James said gently, “I’ll be fine.”

               “He’s going to kill you.”

               “No, he’s not.”

               “Please.”

               John raised his eyebrows, not used to hearing the detective use such a… polite phrase.

               James sighed.

               “Why do you want me?” he asked the killer, eyes dark and calculating.

               “You’re not… not…” the killer was searching for a word.

               “…ordinary?” James offered. Sherlock inwardly winced, having a brief flash of mind palace Moriarty pass through his mind’s eye.

               “You’re mine. You’re special.”

               James licked his lips, “I’m not yours to take. You’re sick. Come out now.”

               “…I can’t do that.”

               “You have to,” Sherlock said sternly, “Come out now, or the three of us will come in to find you.”

               Silence fell. John quickly texted Lestrade their location and the three of them began to move forward towards the shop, weapons at the ready.

               Sherlock slowly pushed open the door, and the three of them filed into the nearly pitch dark shop, feet almost silent.

               Suddenly, an enraged shriek filled Sherlock’s ears and the killer crashed into him from the side, together toppling a shelf of various CDs, right in front of where James was standing. Black fire lit in the criminal’s eyes and a gunshot rang out through the shop, making John freeze in his tracks as he ran to help Sherlock. The killer shrieked and Sherlock pushed his now whimpering form off to the side as the doctor sprang into motion again, making sure to keep a gun on the killer at all times.

               Sherlock glanced from a heavily breathing James to the gaping hole in the killer’s shoulder. The criminal suddenly looked extremely concerned as their eyes met, and he rushed over to where the detective was now standing.

               “Are you alright?” James asked.

               “Fine,” Sherlock studied the criminal.

               “What?”

               “You shot for the shoulder, not the head. Why?”

               James blinked, “It was a split second decision.”

               That seemed precisely what would have been most people’s rationale for shooting for the head, but Sherlock decided to let it go.

<br />

               “They found the bodies of all but two guards who were scheduled to be on watch tonight,” Sally Donovan reported to Lestrade. Police lights illuminated the outside of the mall, and the once desolate building was now crowded with officers of the law.

               “Jesus Christ, what a nightmare,” the silver haired man shook his head, turning to Sherlock and John, “Thank you again,” he then turned to James, “You too. You all should get some sleep. If you can sleep after a thing like this.”

               “I assure you that such difficulties are not of large concern to us,” Sherlock drawled, completely straight faced. John frowned and James put a hand to his face as Lestrade, who obviously didn’t pick up on the meaning behind the statement, turned away from them with a weak nod and smile.

               James sighed, “Sherlock-”

               “What?”

               “ _Must_ you make comments like that to everyone we know?”

               “Comments like what?”

               “About _us_. People don’t need to know what we do under cover of darkness.”

               “It’s not always dark when we-”

               “Jesus Christ, you’re like a child. A pre-pubescent child who just discovered what sex is,” James shook his head.

               “Am not,” Sherlock frowned.

               “Only the first part,” John muttered.

               Upon receiving a dark glare from Sherlock, the doctor looked away and coughed.

               “Well, I should get back home to Mary. Wouldn’t want her to worry.”

               “Tell her hello for me,” James called after the doctor, and only received a furious look of warning from John in response.

               “Why provoke him?” Sherlock asked the criminal. He had noticed, of course, that Mary only came over when John was gone; or at least, before the doctor had moved out, she had. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that John hated James and Mary’s friendship.

               The criminal sighed, “I don’t know, Sherly.”

               “And why would the killer be intelligent enough to murder almost all of the guards in the building quietly, without being noticed, but have a pile of organs and skin in his basement?” Sherlock’s tone was getting progressively more frustrated as he searched for answers.

               James’s eyes were distant as he answered, “He was angry, Sherlock,” he said quietly, “not stupid.”


	29. Dance

Sherlock looked around the crowded room, a sinking feeling beginning to consume him. John was so happy. Molly was happy. He was… going to leave.

               The detective expertly slipped through the crowd and quickly donned his coat and scarf, still feeling strange wearing the now mostly hidden suit he had worn for the occasion.

               He hated gatherings like this. They always made him wonder what was wrong with him; what was missing. Sherlock had felt fine most days when he was with James, or John, but now that John had exchanged vows with Mary, he was going to want stability. That was something that Sherlock couldn’t offer him. The detective felt a pang of longing for James cut through his thoughts like a knife.

               Sherlock had expected to feel better when he stepped out into the cold night air, but instead he only felt worse. He doubted anyone had noticed that he had left, but when they did, what if they worried about him? He wanted John to care about him, but not because he felt obligated. The unpleasant, familiar feeling of desire for isolation had just begun to creep into the detective’s mind when his thoughts were interrupted by a slim figure leaned up against a tree.

               “It’s rude to leave a wedding early, Sherly,” Sherlock could hear the smile in James’s teasing Irish drawl. He instantly felt a little bit warmer, but still felt the weight of the evening on his mind.

               “What are you doing here?” Sherlock inquired, “I thought you had ‘things to do’.”

               “Nope,” James took a playful step towards the detective, the only illumination coming from the patio lights, “I’ve been at home, twiddling my thumbs.”

               “What?” Sherlock was slightly irritated, “Then why didn’t you come?”

               James raised an eyebrow in surprise, “I thought you knew.”

               “Knew what?” Sherlock snapped, getting impatient.

               “Sherlock, I wasn’t invited.”

               Sherlock was silent. John hadn’t invited James? He was the only one besides Sherlock, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson that knew the criminal’s true identity, but not inviting him would cause so much talk. The boyfriend of the best man, not receiving an invitation? It would have been easier to just invite him and threaten him into behaving… or simply ask Sherlock to keep an eye on him. A disturbing thought then occurred to the detective… what if John didn’t trust _him_ with James? Was that the reason? Did John honestly have that little faith in him?

               “Was the photographer yours?” Sherlock suddenly spoke up.

               “Of course not,” James lied smoothly.

               “…Then why are you here?” Sherlock repeated his earlier question, now starting to feel even more upset than before.

               “Did you get your dance?”

               “What?”

               “Your _dance_ , doofus. You like to dance, do you not? You wanted to dance at Johnny’s wedding?”

               “…Oh,” Sherlock said softly. He was touched that James would do this for him, but he wasn’t in a mood for dancing. The two fell silent once more until James finally spoke up, dragging Sherlock onto the dark lawn with him.

               “Dance with me.”

               “James we really don’t have to-”

               “Sherlock, don’t make me threaten you,” James said lightly.

               Finally, James ended up forcing Sherlock to follow in his footsteps. The two felt like absolute fools at first, worried that someone would see the two men outside the wedding, dancing to muffled music from inside the reception, but soon Sherlock had taken the lead and was leading James around the lawn with him.

               Neither had ever done something so _stupid_ in their entire lives. But somehow, neither cared. This simple movement of synchronized feet in the night air was enough to melt all of their troubles away. James didn’t really think about how Sherlock had come to like such an ordinary activity, because as soon as he got the hang of it he was enjoying twirling across the lawn more than he could ever have imagined he would. Slowly, elated grins spread across both of their faces, and James snickered as Sherlock playfully dipped him low to the ground.

               Then the song ended, to be replaced by a faster one. Sherlock and James stopped moving, now standing in the middle of the lawn, in plain sight of the windows.

               James pulled Sherlock down into a deep kiss. The criminal tasted like gunpowder, red velvet, and forbidden fruit; if there could be such a taste. James tasted more of emotion than actual objects, the detective had found. Dimly, he wondered if John experienced something similar with Mary. These thoughts weren’t dwelled on for long, however, as Sherlock met James’s eyes and found himself, as usual, completely entranced. Now that he had the companionship he had been longing for all evening, the detective felt an unusual amount of sentiment for the criminal; something that could not be articulated, even in the most meaningful of phrases.

               “Do you still hate weddings?” James asked with a smirk.

               “Was the photographer yours?” Sherlock repeated his earlier question, still with a trace of suspicion.

               James pretended to gasp, offended, “Of course not, Sherly! I can’t believe you have so little faith in me!”

               Sherlock scoffed. Faith seemed to be a recurring theme of this evening. He watched John through the window. Things would never be the same for them. John had Mary, and Sherlock had James. He had tried to keep them together, but at this point it seemed inevitable they would grow apart. The end of an era…

               “I need a case,” Sherlock finally said, still deep in thought.

               James picked up on Sherlock’s tone. He knew exactly what the detective was thinking, and it wasn’t about crime solving. He had won. Johnny was out of the picture, and he hadn’t even needed to try. The doctor had done it all by himself.

               “Let’s go find one.”

<br />

               Lestrade stared out the window at Sherlock’s retreating figure. He felt a pang of pity for the detective and decided to pull Molly aside.

               “Sherlock’s leaving,” he said in a low voice.

               Molly muttered an apology to Tom and followed Lestrade out the door. He clearly had drunk too much this evening, and she felt a need to pull him back before he did something stupid.

               “What are we doing?” she whispered.

               “I want to see where he’s going.”

               Molly shook her head; this day had gone on long enough. “Greg, let’s go inside. You’ve had too much to drink and-”

               “Do I sound drunk to you?” he asked defensively. He had a point—Molly couldn’t say that he sounded drunk, and he seemed to be walking straight. All of the empty glasses around him, though…

               Suddenly, a figure stepped out from behind a tree, and Molly and Lestrade, in a panic, jumped behind the nearest bush.

               “I can’t believe this is happening…” Molly moaned quietly.

               “I know, who _is_ that?”

               “Not to _them_! Us sneaking around! This is ridicu-”

               “Shh!”

               _“Why didn’t you come?”_ Sherlock sounded irritated.

               _“I thought you knew,”_ The other man sounded surprised. Lestrade couldn’t recognize the voice, besides a sort of vague familiarity, but Molly would know it anywhere.

               _“Knew what?”_

 _“Sherlock, I wasn’t invited_.”

               John… hadn’t invited James? Why not? Why make Sherlock go to a wedding alone, without his boyfriend? Unless…

               It hit Molly then. She felt the breath sucked from her lungs as the truth sunk in. Moriarty was real, and the criminal mastermind was standing only meters away from her. She had always known that there was something off in the explanation of his actions. She had always seen the madness hiding behind a curtain of civilization in his eyes. She just hadn’t wanted to accept it.

               “Greg, I think-” she started nervously.

               “I know,” he answered quietly. His voice shook with realization.

               _“Was the photographer yours?”_

_“Of course not.”_

Liar. He was so obviously lying. Sherlock knew James was doing things like that, and he didn’t do anything about it? Molly didn’t know how she felt… it was almost like disgust. Sherlock probably knew that James was lying, and was blatantly ignoring it. Did he really care that little for human life?

               “He’s lying,” Greg pointed out.

               “I know.”

               _“Did you get your dance?”_

_“What?”_

_“Your dance, doofus. You like to dance, do you not? You wanted to dance at Johnny’s wedding?”_

_“…Oh.”_

_“Dance with me.”_

_“James, we really don’t have to-”_

_“Sherlock, don’t make me threaten you.”_

And then they were dancing. And laughing. Molly and Lestrade stole back inside the first chance they got, wanting to give the two their privacy.

               “That’s actually-” Greg started.

               “I know it’s him,” Molly said quietly.

               “What the hell are we going to do?” Greg was still whispering, looking more panicked by the minute.

               “Nothing,” Molly said resignedly.

               “ _Nothing?”_

“They make each other happy. He cares about Sherlock.” Suddenly, Molly didn’t feel much like talking to Greg anymore.

               “But he’s a criminal mastermind!”

               “Yes, and Sherlock is a lonely detective. If they didn’t love each other, they wouldn’t be doing that,” she pointed out the window to where the two were now grinning through a kiss.

               Greg sighed, “I’m going home as soon as those two are out of sight.” He muttered something that sounded like ‘nightmare’ as he walked away.

               Molly sighed and trudged back to the dance floor, heels clicking. At least someone was leaving the wedding happy.


	30. Graveyard

James stared down at the over polished stone. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to come. He only knew that he wanted to. Looking at the engraving was strange; “Sherlock Holmes”, it read. It was perplexing that someone so incredibly… distinguished could be reduced to two words carved in stone.

               He looked around at the multitude of stones, and felt even worse. Was this what would have been, if he had killed Sherlock? He had tried so many times, and each time, Sherlock had evaded him. But what if he had succeeded? Sherlock would be just another stone; another body slowly decaying under overworked dirt. This would be him, too, someday…

               Why had he come here? Certainly not to mourn the replacement corpse. There really was no purpose. In fact, there really was no purpose to burying one’s dead, either. Might as well just leave them where they fall. He should have left his sister where she fell…

               James scowled at the ground as he felt a small lump in his throat. Was that why he was here? To mourn little Mary? She was gone; nothing would change that. He could never, ever change what he had reduced her to; what he had helped his father do. He was never going to be ordinary ever again. Never again would he be like his father.

               Did loving Sherlock make him ordinary? He didn’t think so. Sherlock wasn’t like other people, therefore loving him wasn’t a normal thing. But if someone as simple as John meant something to the detective…

               The criminal had a sinking feeling that, over the next few days, he was going to get a clearer reading than ever before on how much the detective truly cared for his blogger. He wanted to hope that his fears would be disproved, but Sherlock had seemed… off after the wedding. Even as he had looked unto James with adoration, there had been a sort of quiet sadness about him.

               The criminal studied the ground before the tombstone, thinking of how bare it looked. He should have brought flowers. Not for Sherlock. For Mary. He wished that she could have been buried in a place like this. Not half hazard in frozen ground; an unmarked grave in the woods. He had reduced his sister to a fossil. An animal. She at least should have a polished stone; something so that people could walk by and know her name.

               “…James?”

               He slowly turned around to face the unfamiliar voice.

               Oh. Lestrade. What was he doing here? More importantly, why did he bother acknowledging the criminal’s presence? He gave a curt nod in acknowledgement, hoping the silver haired man would leave him be.

               To James’s dismay, Greg took a cautious step forward, so he was only about a pace away from where the criminal stood.

               “You came to the wedding,” Greg began cautiously. He could feel adrenaline pumping through his veins as he spoke. He hated to admit it, but even in broad daylight, in a public place, there was something that deeply unsettled him about Moriarty. Though perhaps it was only the fact that they were by Sherlock’s ‘grave’.

               _This man could have made it real_ , Lestrade thought as he glanced at the tombstone.

               James wasn’t surprised that someone had seen his moment with Sherlock, outside the reception. What he _was_ surprised about was the fact that Lestrade had the audacity to point it out to him.

               “So I did,” he finally answered coolly.

               Greg swallowed, “And you really care about Sherlock, do you?” His accusing tone was ridiculously obvious—James knew exactly what he was implying.

               “How long have you known?” he asked, back still to Lestrade.

               Greg took a shaky breath, “Since then. The wedding.”

               “Are you going to tell anyone?” There was a quiet threat in James’s voice.

               “Are you going to kill anyone?”

               James grinned bitterly, “Honey, I already have. 3 this morning.”

               “Who else knows?”

               “John, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson,” James stated matter of factly, not bothering to add Sherlock’s name.

               Greg didn’t know how to respond. The most dangerous criminal in London, possibly the world, was free, and no one seemed to care. He had taken a huge risk confronting James, and it seemed to be for nothing. What if the criminal decided that Lestrade was one too many names that knew his identity? Sherlock didn’t care that James was killing people; would he care Lestrade was one of the victims?

               “This was a nice chat,” James attempted to dismiss Greg, wanting to be alone.

               “You don’t love Sherlock,” Lestrade said it as a fact, and it infuriated James. He fought to keep his mask of indifference on as he turned around to finally face the grey haired man.

               “What makes you say that?” He cocked his head to the side, eyes daring Lestrade to say something rash.

               Greg was incredulous, “Are you kidding? You _kill_ people for a living! You’re a serial killer; a psychopath…”

               “There’s at least one assumption in there.”

               “How the bloody hell can you kill for a living and still love someone?”

               “If I didn’t ‘love’ Sherlock, he would have been dead a long time ago. He’ll tell you himself,” James decided to trust the detective on his answer, even though he knew Greg would never really ask.

               The silver haired man only stood there, mouth agape.

               “You’re insane,” he finally said, exhaustion and resignation reducing his voice to a mere whisper.

               James grinned bitterly, “So I’ve been told,” he thought back to one of his first conversations with Sherlock, “Now why don’t you run along to mourn your late mother, hm?”

               “How did you kn…?”

               “How _not_?”

               Greg paused, not surprised Sherlock would choose someone as observant as he was as a partner.

               “Why _are_ you here?” he asked.

               “Family,” James answered, turning his back to Lestrade again, staring at Sherlock’s grave.

               “That’s Sherlock’s gravestone.”

               “So it is.”

               Greg studied the man in front of him for another moment, staring down at Sherlock’s grave, before walking away.

               He almost wished he’d stayed in the dark.


	31. Hug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TW for drugs.

James casually entered the flat, tossing his phone on the nearest flat surface he could find and allowing his eyes to wander, as they usually did, until they found Sherlock, who appeared to be lying peacefully on the couch, in his mind palace again. The detective seemed to be spending a lot of time there, as of late.

               The criminal sighed, perching on the edge of the couch and running a hand through the detective’s hair gently, falling into his own thoughts. His latest crime had run perfectly, as usual. He almost wished he could fail at one, just to shake things up a bit. But then again, that could land him in prison and take Sherlock from him, and that was something the criminal would never be willing to risk.

               James wondered if Mary was actually happy with John, right now. He was trying to suppress the idea of what they might be doing, but the thought that always seemed to take priority over that was whether she truly wanted the marriage. To him, it seemed rushed, and not only because he hated John. Truly, he thought they should have at least waited a year longer. No matter what angle he approached it from, whenever James thought of the fact that Mary was now _with_ John, a white hot anger rose within him, whispering to him that John was keeping her, his sister, prisoner.

               The criminal, distressed as usual by this uncomfortable line of thought, moved so that he was straddling Sherlock. He needed a distraction, and the detective had always been the best distraction he could find.

               “Sherly…” James sing-songed, prying the detective’s hands apart from where they were entwined together, under his chin, and lacing their fingers together.

               “…”

               The criminal sighed at the lack of response, “Come now, don’t be like this,” he teased lightly, releasing the detective’s hands and lying down on top of him, “I know you’re bored, you’ve been complaining for days.”

               “…”

               James gave a frustrated huff and buried his face in Sherlock’s chest, groaning into the light fabric of his shirt and giving a heavy sigh. The criminal felt content for all but twelve seconds before the smell hit his nostrils. He immediately stiffened and straightened up.

               “Sherlock?” James’s eyebrows knitted together, expression darkening.

               The detective finally answered with a sigh, “What?”

               “Would you mind explaining why you smell like-”

               “Oh, for God’s sake, James, it’s for a case.” The criminal noticed that the detective still hadn’t opened his eyes. A wave of anger washed over James at Sherlock’s uncaring tone.

               “Open your eyes,” James commanded in a lethally quiet voice.

               “Let me be,” Sherlock said monotonously. The criminal deftly got up off the detective and the couch and, already knowing what he was going to find, snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock’s closed eyes.

               The detective, to his own dismay, couldn’t stop his reflexes in time. There were downsides to using, and loss of control over reflexes tended to be one of them. Sherlock actually was beginning to feel quite angry at James. The criminal _knew_ he had been in his mind palace, and had still interrupted him. God, _why_ couldn’t he just be left alone? John had always seemed to understand that. In fact, perhaps he’d understood it a little too well.

               Sherlock’s red rimmed, bloodshot eyes stared back at James with defiance.

               “You’ve been using,” James commented dangerously.

               The detective rolled his eyes, “Yes, I have been using. Problem?”

               “Yes. ‘For a case’ _my arse_. Where is it?”

               Sherlock sighed, “What does it _matter_?”

               James suddenly, with surprising strength, pulled the detective off the couch by his arms, forcing him to stand. The criminal’s eyes were frantic as he attempted to roll up Sherlock’s sleeves to search for needle marks, mind wandering to the possibility of blood infection if he’d been injecting, as well as smoking. The detective pushed him away.

               “I’m fine, let me be,” Sherlock snarled.

               “What the hell is the matter with you?” James asked quietly, eyes ablaze.

               “There was nothing the matter, until you came home.”

               “Oh?” James’s voice was rising now, “Did you honestly think you could hide this, Sherlock? DID YOU?”

               “I was _hoping_ you’d have the courtesy to allow me to keep some things to myself,” Sherlock found his voice quickly rising.

               “Keep it to yourself? _Yourself?_ You’re smoking _heroin_ , Sherlock, and God knows what else! You act like I read your damn diary every night by the fire!”

               “It’s _recreational_ , nothing more! Do I _look_ like an addict, James?”

               “You’re certainly sounding like one!”

               “Don’t pretend,” Sherlock spat, “That it matters to you what I take. It. Doesn’t. Matter. You see this?” he gestured up and down his body, “ _This_ is transport. What does it matter what I do to it? You never corrected me on this; that was John’s-” the detective stopped himself midsentence, but it was too late. James’s eyes were black with fury as he nodded slightly and marched off to the bookcase, starting to tear books off the walls and, when that wasn’t enough, opening drawers and taking the cushions off the armchairs. He looked determined to tear the flat apart.

               _God_ , why did he have to put on such a show? Sherlock attempted to follow the criminal on his rampage around the flat, arms crossed and waiting to be acknowledged.

               Finally, James spun around, “WHERE IS IT?” his breathing was heavy and his heartbeat thudded in his ears.

               “WHAT DOES IT MATTER?”

               James shook his head, “You are so _selfish_ , Sherlock Holmes. You disgust me.”

               “ _I_ disgust _you_? Well,” the detective scoffed, “then I must have set some sort of record.”

               “Stop it!”

               “WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST LET THINGS BE?”

               “BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO WITHOUT YOU!”

               Sherlock froze, mind drawing to a halt. He and James stood there a moment, eyes filled with too many emotions to count and chests still heaving. Finally, the detective broke the silence.

               “…what?” he asked quietly.

               James laughed a dark, humorless laugh, turning away from Sherlock and attempting to get a handle on his emotions.

               “You’re really thick, Sherlock,” he nodded to himself, back still to his partner, “do you know that?”

               “I’ve been told, once or twice,” the detective said monotonously.

               “It’s the truth,” James said, turning around. Sherlock was shocked to see that there were tears, actual _tears_ , in the criminal’s eyes. James Moriarty was blinking back tears for him.

               “It’s just transport,” Sherlock repeated softly, hoping that the criminal could see his reasoning, now that the shouting was over.

               “No it’s not!” James raised his voice slightly, still struggling with the lump in his throat, “It’s not, Sherlock. You only get one transport and if you lose it, I lose you. Do you have _any idea_ ,” the criminal’s voice fell to a whisper, sounding uncharacteristically weak, “what that would do to me?”

               Sherlock felt a wave of guilt wash over him. Most people that knew about it hated his occasional using, but never had he seen someone react as James just had. Maybe it didn’t matter how much of a handle he had on it. Perhaps he should stop, just because of the risk of hurting James. To him, it didn’t seem logical, but that didn’t mean it was wrong. And since when had his and James’s relationship been logical?

               The detective sighed, looking at the floor, “It wasn’t for a case,” he said, confirming what they both already knew.

               James nodded, brown eyes meeting blue, “Where is it?” he demanded.

               “…top shelf of the corner cabinet,” Sherlock nodded towards the kitchen.

               “…You miss him,” James said in a voice like down. His gaze was unreadable.

               Sherlock felt a lump rising in his throat as well, but he forced it down. Finally, he said in toneless voice:

               “..Yes.”

               The two just stood for a moment, James’s eyebrows knitting together in what looked strangely like confusion. Sherlock was just wondering what the criminal could possibly be confused about when the Irishman took a hesitant step towards him, then another, until they were only centimeters apart.

               With both parties now looking confused, James awkwardly, unsurely, stood up on his toes slightly and wrapped his arms gingerly around Sherlock. The detective stood stiffly for a moment before realizing what was happening. He gently wrapped his arms around the criminal and squeezed.

               The sudden pressure surprised James slightly. It was almost comical; he and Sherlock had been in some of the most deeply intimate situations possible, but they had never actually… hugged. In fact, now that James thought of it, he didn’t think he’d ever hugged _anyone_ before. At least, not legitimately.

               The criminal decided to return the squeeze, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through his chest as he did so. He nuzzled his face into the detective, and the pair simply embraced one another in the center of the trashed flat.

               They didn’t let go for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you all think? Poor Sherlock misses John… R&R, and I’ll see you soon, lovelies.


	32. Hide

“James!” the criminal’s head snapped in the direction of his name, eyes raking the crowd until he saw a petite blonde waving at him. He gave a small smile from across the street and briskly made his way towards her.

               “Took you long enough. If I recall correctly _you_ called me here,” James drawled, rolling his eyes. There were a lot of people on the streets today; the sun beamed down and London seemed to be buzzing with the energy of hurried shoppers. Mary was finally back from sex holiday with John, and things were looking up.

               “I knew you would wait,” Mary grinned mischievously.

               “I was about to walk away. I have better things to do than socialize with women I barely know,” the attempt to label Mary as something less than significant was feeble, and James knew as the words left his lips that neither of them believed it. He had a sinking feeling that Mary knew how much he loved her. He could only hope that she wouldn’t misinterpret it as John had.

               The blonde held her hand to her heart, mouth agape in a gesture of mock offense, “Come now, you’ll make me cry!”

               “And what a shame that would be,” James said dryly, teasing her as he’d grown so accustomed to doing. He wondered if she would let Sherlock get away with a comment like that. Probably. Mary had a way of accepting people’s flaws that the criminal found incredibly… perplexing. “So I know you haven’t just brought me here for the pastries…or have you?”

               “James Moriarty, are you calling me fat?”

               “Don’t worry, there’s hope. You have yet to reach Mycroft’s level.”

               “Oh, good then,” Mary feigned relief, “Let’s grab some coffee and sit down. I know you hate small talk.” Suddenly, the light tone had faded, and as James looked at Mary he saw that there was something heavy in her eyes. There was something there that wasn’t usually present. How had he not noticed it in the previous conversation? As they sat down at a small table across from one another, he knew what it was.

               _He’s told her,_ a voice in his head said, _John told her._ All James could do was wait with dread for what she would say. He would never forgive John if he made Mary hate him. Instantly, a scenario in which he took a knife to John’s throat, spilling out crimson liquid formed in his mind. The thought of Mary and Sherlock’s reactions cut it to a halt. God, he hated people.

               “So what _did_ you bring me here for?” he asked seriously.

               Mary hesitated a moment, “I want you to stay… calm.” There was no fear in her voice, only apprehension. John had definitely told her. How much was unclear.

               “…Alright,” James folded his arms in front of him and leaned forward, paying his coffee no attention. His dark eyes bored into Mary’s light ones.

               “How…did you and Sherlock first meet?” she asked. It felt as though they were the only two people in the shop.

               James studied his arms, “At the hospital. I was dating Molly at the time. She introduced us.”

               “Only lies have detail,” Mary said quietly, smiling sadly to herself.

               “That wasn’t a lie,” James said sharply. He saw Mary wince slightly at his tone, and softened his gaze, continuing to look down.

               “John… told me things, James.”

               “How much?”

               “He said…he didn’t want us meeting when he wasn’t around.”

               “Of course not. He probably thinks I want to shag you,” James said bitterly. The honeymoon. That was what had brought this on. Of course, John had had plenty of time over the past two weeks to talk to Mary about the criminal. The blonde had been warned a long time ago, James guessed, around the same time the doctor had threatened him first. To be only bringing it up now…

               “Do you?” Mary raised her eyebrows.

               “Of course not,” James sneered with disgust, “Why would I want to shag my sis-” He quickly stopped himself, barely able to believe he’d allowed such a careless slip of the tongue. When had he started caring about people this easily?

               “Sister?” Mary said quietly, “What do you-”

               “It doesn’t matter,” James said quickly, “What did John tell you?”

               “He told me you were dangerous,” Mary said matter of factly, making sure to look James in the eyes as she said it, “He said you liked hurting people; manipulating them.”

               James nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact, “Anything else?”

               “No.”

               The criminal studied Mary. She had such a gentle face. Just looking at her made him feel…healed. James knew then; he could never let Mary know what he was. She would be disgusted with him. He had to be a good role model; he had to protect his sister. A small part of his mind reminded him she wasn’t his real sister, but it was quickly silenced by emotion, something that usually only surfaced around Sherlock.

               “I’m going to kill him,” James muttered, feeling sudden anger at John for exposing Mary to this sort of danger. Did he not realize it was riskier having her suspect then keeping her in the dark?

               “Please don’t,” Mary said seriously. Perhaps she already had an idea of what he was. That didn’t mean he wanted to tell her any more.

               James sighed, “It’s better that you don’t know the whole story.”

               “I believe you. I’ve got secrets too, you know.”

               “Oh, what?” James scoffed, “Like the secret porn stash on your computer?”

               “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mary said innocently. The heavy mood was quickly dispelling.

               “…All you need to know, Mary,” James began, “Is that I would _never_ hurt you. You’re not ordinary.”

               “I know,” Mary smiled, “Why would anyone risk damaging a pretty face?”

               James shook his head, “So conceited...”

               “Oh, sorry,” Mary grimaced, putting a hand on James’s arm, “I meant _your_ pretty face. If you tried to hurt me, I’d be wearing it as a skin mask.”

               James snorted, laughter starting to shake his form as he covered his face. When he looked up again, his entire face seemed to glow with warmth, Mary noted.

               “You should do that more often, Sherlock likes it,” Mary pointed out.

               “What? Laugh like a snorting pig?”

               “Ugh, you’re so grumpy. You’re only…what, thirty seven? And you’re already a bitter old man?”

               “Old? Darling, I’m hoping I won’t last long enough to be called ‘old’.” James studied the sugar packets on the table.

               “What a sad thing to wish for,” Mary mused.

               They were silent for a minute; Mary studying the criminal and James studying the packets of sweetener.

               “What did you mean, ‘sister’,” Mary said quietly, breaking the silence.

               James froze. For whatever reason, it seemed a little bit easier to tell the story to Mary then it had the first time, with Sherlock. Was he getting over the death of his sister? He wasn’t sure if he wanted that. That was a secret, only the people most deserving got to hear it, and even Sherlock hearing it had been a bit of an accident. Before James had known it, it had slipped out. When would he have told the detective if that hadn’t happened? Surely, not as early as he was now, with Mary. _Was_ this too early? It seemed if anyone, she deserved to know. But why? Because she shared a name with his dead sister? Now that James looked at it, his logic in caring for Mary wasn’t extremely sound. But then again, neither was his love for Sherlock. Mary seemed like she deserved to hear.

               “I had a sister named Mary,” James finally said.

               “Had?”

               “She… died. When I was very young.”

               “I’m sorry.”

               “Don’t be,” James dismissed her sentiments with a wave, “I was a child.”

               “That can’t be all,” Mary perceived.

               “Very good,” James crooned. He wondered why he was speaking as if to someone he was trying to frighten. He waited a few moments before continuing, studying Mary’s nails with a scowl, “…It was my father,” he finally said. Mary noticed his gaze quickly becoming icy.

               “Oh my God,” she whispered, “James, I can’t imagine-”

               “I don’t want sympathy,” he said coolly, “He’s… long dead now.” James still remembered every detail of the killing he had arranged for his father, all those years ago. He had made sure to photograph it in his mind; burn it onto every wall of his mind palace. He never wanted to forget.

               “No one wants sympathy. They want the people they love back,” Mary put a hand on James’s arm gently, and he stiffened, staring at it as though it was an alien. Only Sherlock touched him so fondly.

               “Don’t do that,” her voice was surprisingly strong as she gave a squeeze to his arm. James looked up from the table to meet her eyes.

               “Do what?” he kept his tone neutral.

               “Don’t shut people out. I’m not Mary Moriarty, and I never will be. But I’m Mary Morstan, and I’m happy to have you as a friend, James. I hope you realize how much you mean to me.”

               James stared, studying her.

               “You’re just like Sherlock you know,” she observed.

               James shook his head, “You’re… strange.”

               Mary smiled, “Look who’s talking. Listen, I have to meet some John for lunch in half an hour, but I want you to know that even though he’ll never understand our relationship, I will never believe him about you.”

               “You’re a fool,” James said deeply, studying her as she got up.

               “I know.”

               James swallowed, now alone at the table. She could never know. She could never know the monster he was. Now that the moment was past, he was happy he hadn’t told her about his role in his sister’s death. It was better for some things to remain hidden. Some things deserved to remain in darkness.


	33. Fire

Candlelight flickered across James’s skin, making him look like a creature of worship in the darkened flat. The criminal’s dark eyes remained closed as he lie on the couch, imitating Sherlock’s favorite thinking pose as he sorted through his thoughts, his breathing even and his brow knitted.

               Mary. _God,_ he couldn’t stop dwelling on what she’d said, despite it taking place weeks ago.

               _People don’t want sympathy, they want the people they love back_ , she had said. Of course she wasn’t his biological sister, but that didn’t stop James from mentally accepting her as a sibling.

               _Why_ did she stay with John? She was so… not ordinary, especially compared to him. Why would she reduce herself to that? The criminal felt an image of John pinning her up against the wall, as he had James, when he’d threatened him, flash through his mind.

               Anyone but John would do. John who marched across the Earth as though he owned it. John who felt a need to patronize Sherlock for thinking the way he did. John who reminded James ever so heavily of-

               _No._ James shoved that memory back in the dungeons of his mind where it belonged. No one ever could know about that.

               Sighing, the criminal filed the memories of Sherlock and Mary away into their newly sorted (heavily guarded) place in his mind. He’d been feeling… strange, lately. Sherlock hadn’t relapsed more than once after their fight, though he’d been using nicotine patches more often than James liked. Mary stopped by once in a while to say hello. The criminal never saw John anymore. Things were, for the most part, looking up.

               If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was getting…bored.

               That was a disturbing concept. And yet, it was a motivating one. He’d thought Sherlock had eliminated his boredom forever, but maybe it was time to try something new. Perhaps now was the time to reintroduce something he and the detective had avoided since the dawning of their relationship. Perhaps it was time to bring Sherlock to his side, once and for all. He needed to eliminate the detective’s feelings for John. _All of them._

<br />

               As Sherlock entered the flat, James remained motionless, despite feeling the detective’s sharp gaze on him. The criminal didn’t need to open his eyes to know that he was now scrutinizing the candles James had lit around the flat.

               Sherlock sighed, “For God’s sake, James,” he muttered as the criminal opened his eyes and sat up, rolling his shoulders.

               “What?” the criminal asked innocently.

               “You’re going to burn the flat down,” Sherlock’s pupils were dilated in the dim light.

               James stood up and strolled lazily towards the detective, a playful expression in his eyes, “Don’t pretend you don’t like it even a little.”

               Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head as a wry smirk contorted his face, “You enjoy very ordinary things, for someone so-”

               The detective froze as James raised an eyebrow. He licked his lips, staring down the criminal as the light continued to dance on their skin. Sherlock’s infatuation was easily read in his eyes today, despite his irritability, and James felt his mood lighten a little bit.

               “Sherlock,” James said softly, expression mimicking the tone of his voice, “I wanted to ask you something.” He needed to tread carefully.

               The detective stared, apprehensive yet curious.

               “You crave a high, do you not?” the criminal asked in a voice like velvet. His eyes looked almost black in the dark. Sherlock licked his lips again and didn’t respond, mind racing to try and figure out what James could possibly be suggesting.

               James took the silence as a prompt to continue, “And you don’t want the drugs, correct?”

               Sherlock frowned, “I-”

               “You. Don’t. Want. Them… Correct?” It was phrased as a question, but with the way the criminal was looking at him, it felt more like a command.

               “…no,” Sherlock finally answered. He had just noticed how close he and James were now standing to one another. The detective licked his lips again as his pulse jumped. It would be so easy to just kiss the criminal right now…

               As if reading his thoughts, James took a step back from him, causing Sherlock to huff almost inaudibly in frustration. The criminal paced slowly around the room, hands clasped behind his back. It was a few moments before he spoke again.

               “The cases aren’t enough, are they?” James asked suggestively, back to the detective, with shadows on his face. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back like he had once felt the detective’s knife to his skin.

               Sherlock didn’t reply. Of course the cases weren’t enough. With John gone, nothing was enough. No one was creative anymore. What he wouldn’t give to find a _genius_ case. Something so watertight that no one could crack it but him. Something that only he could-

               _Oh._

No one could give him a case like that. No one but James. Of course, the criminal always playfully shrugged off Sherlock’s accusations of making cases for him, despite both of them knowing the bloody truth of who had set them up. But James had specifically said _cases._ That encompassed even those of his own design.

               Was James suggesting that he switch teams?

               Sherlock shook his head, running a hand through his curls, “…No,” he finally answered.

               James grinned to himself, teeth gleaming in the flickering light. He quickly masked his glee before turning around on a heel and starting towards the detective again.

               “Oh, Sherly…” he shook his head, reminding the detective more of Jim Moriarty than he had in a very, very long time, “You should have said something earlier, darling.” Mischief danced in his eyes the same way his shadow danced on the wall in the flickering light.

               “I don’t want any part in-” Sherlock started to lie, but couldn’t find he could continue when the criminal laced a hand in his hair. Now that John was gone, he wanted, no… he _needed_ something. He needed something that no one but James could give him. He _craved_ it.

               “Sherlock,” James’s breath was hot on the detective’s ear as he whispered, “I can give you a high.”

               Sherlock turned his head slightly to find himself staring into James’s deep eyes, and felt his heart jump again.

               He _needed_ it.

               The detective, locking morale away for the time being, leaned in and kissed the criminal. _Sin with me_ , his lips told James. The criminal tasted of mint as the two writhed against one another in the darkness, and Sherlock felt not guilty in the slightest as they shed their clothing, their closeness his consent… no, his _eagerness_ to hang up his halo.

               Flames ate away at candle wicks as skin brushed against skin. Sherlock pushed James down into his chair and crashed their lips together, pinning the criminal’s arms to the piece of furniture. He was surprised when James kissed him back with a ferocity equaling his own.

               Hm. That was new. Usually James was submissive. Sherlock dismissed the questioning thought as James struggled against his grip, nails digging into his skin.

               “You’ve always wanted it,” James said through gritted teeth, moaning as Sherlock ground their hips together, “Admit it.” He looked the detective dead in the eyes, and Sherlock found himself unable to speak. Instead of answering, he moved from James’s lips to his neck.

               “I always saw it in you, Sherly,” James grinned maliciously as the detective kissed his neck, “I always saw your potential.”

               Sherlock moved to stare James straight in the eyes again, “…and I, you.”

               James moaned as he finally allowed Sherlock to take over. Finally, the detective could be _his_. Sherlock would be safe from the drugs, safe from John, safe from everyone. Saving Mary was another matter entirely, but for the moment he was content to bask in the feel of Sherlock’s skin on his and push other worries from his mind.

               A part of Sherlock knew this was wrong. However, that part’s argument was becoming weaker and weaker. How long had he and the criminal been together? How much had James sacrificed to be with him? Who had been the one to abandon him for someone else? Certainly not James.

               _But John_ …

               No, he didn’t need John. What Sherlock needed was a high, and there was, as James had made clear, only one person who could really give that to him.

               Angels were a bit boring. Perhaps it was time he gave demons a try.


	34. Crime

_I have it. –SH_

_Good. Meet me at home. –JM_

_Care to explain what we are doing? –SH_

_Darling, that would ruin the surprise ;) –JM_

<br />

               Sherlock entered the flat briskly, still waiting for the same adrenaline high that he got during cases. So far, all he’d learned from this was that crime was far less hands on.

               He _did_ enjoy the way James was staring at him, however. The criminal’s eyes were sparkling with malice and he grinned sharply at Sherlock, head tilted slightly to the side as he strode forward. Ever so cheekily, he plucked the detective’s new phone from his outstretched hand, and Sherlock remained stony-faced.

               “What were you able to get?” James asked, already going through the photos the detective had taken.

               “As far as pressure points, she’s an open book. Fifteen year old adopted son. Divorced her husband after she discovered he’d been cheating on her. The usual,” Sherlock drawled.

               “Perfect. The son will do nicely.”

               The detective sighed, feeling increasingly bored, “James, I-”

               The criminal was pressed against Sherlock in a flash, “Don’t worry, love,” he whispered, “The best part comes tonight.”

               The detective was not concerned with what that entailed, but rather with how soon it would come.

<br />

               Martha sighed as she unlocked the door, breathing the familiar smell of cleaner and dust that always seemed to linger in their home. She dropped her bag with a thump on the sofa nearest her, and put a hand to her temple, wondering what on Earth she and Jaime were going to do about dinner.

               “Jay?” she called, wondering if he was in the shower. After not getting a response, she tried calling again, to the same answer.

               _Teenagers_ , she thought tiredly, letting her hair out of its bun as she made her way up the stairs. Her heart gave a little jump when she saw that her son wasn’t in his room.

               _Alright, he must be in the shower_.

               No such luck. Starting to panic, heartbeat increasing and missing child stories flashing through her mind, the brunette began a systematic search of the house, moving quicker and quicker until she looked like a madwoman, sliding slightly as she raced across hardwood floors.

               _Calm down,_ she told herself, _he’s of that age; he’s probably with friends. But what if…?_

               As though to answer her thoughts, the phone rang at that moment, making her jump about a foot in the air. Martha’s hand shook as she picked up the device, feeling as though she already knew what was coming.

               “…Hello?” she asked uncertainly, eyes only now falling to the caller ID. _Unknown._

 _“Martha…darling…it’s been far too long,”_ that voice… it sounded so familiar.

               “Who is this?” she frowned.

               _“Don’t tell me after all this time…you’ve forgotten…my…voice,”_ it sounded as though the man was having tremendous trouble speaking.

               Suddenly, it hit her. She knew who she was speaking to. Anger flared up in her chest as she hissed her next words.

               “I thought I told you never to call here again!” she couldn’t stop her voice from rising at her ex-husband.

               _“T…temper…temper,”_ he sounded as though he was sobbing… actually _sobbing;_ as though he had any right! Wasn’t _he_ the one who had cheated? She really didn’t have time for this; she had to find Jaime…

               A horrifying thought occurred to her then. It was so gut wrenching; so twisted, that it suddenly seemed the only rational explanation for where her son was. Martha could barely form the next words that passed her lips.

               “…Where is… Jaime?”

               _“L…listen to my instructions carefully. If you don’t follow them, I will…ta…take him. Make sure that… that from eleven p.m. to midnight tonight, all the power to the museum is cut off. Jaime will be…in the basement. You may… fetch him, during this time period. F…fail to follow orders, and… and…you’ll be sorry.”_

“But power to the museum isn’t a part of my position! I’m an administrator, I can’t-”

               _“Just… just do it.”_

“Why are you crying?” Martha asked, struggling to breathe.

               _“Just do it.”_ The call ended there. As panicked as the brunette was now feeling, it was nothing compared to how the stout man with the gun to his temple felt. He was grateful for the darkness, as it prevented him from seeing his captor’s face. He knew that nothing, no matter how convincing, could ever redeem him after this. The call would be traced back to him. The fact that he’d been forced to hide the caller ID was only further proof against him. Prison would be a lucky sentence. He only hoped that Jaime was safe.

<br />

               Sherlock followed James through the back door of the museum. 10:59, his phone read. He had tossed the other, newer one, containing the pictures of Jaime’s mother, into a dumpster on the way there.

               James walked ahead of him with a purpose. His feet moved silently; stealthily, and Sherlock was reminded vaguely of a jungle cat. The detective squinted as they walked into a room so fluorescently white, it hurt his eyes.

               “We’ll be caught like rats,” he mumbled, careful not to move his head and give possible cameras any more information.

               James chuckled, “No cameras in here, Sherly. Sebastian did his research. He knows that he’s taking the fall if we get caught.”

               Sherlock frowned, “How does that work?” If a camera had their faces, surely only they could be accused.

               The criminal seemed to read his thoughts as he smiled back at the detective. That crocodile grin was the last thing Sherlock saw before the room went black.

<br />

               “She was punctual…” an Irish drawl remarked in the darkness. Sherlock groped himself blindly for his phone until his hands finally closed around the familiar shape, illuminating half the room with bluish light. James was staring at him with a strange, sideways glare.

               “What?” Sherlock frowned. The criminal only shook his head and pushed the door of the small room open. The two stepped out into a large, tiled art gallery.

               “Reichenbach. Correct?” Sherlock felt disappointed at the mere possibility that that was what they had come here for. Not only because he cared little for paintings, but because it would be incredibly unoriginal of James.

               Another dark chuckle from James, who was still leading the way in the blackness.

               “Don’t be so _boring_ , darling.”

               Sherlock huffed. He was most certainly not boring. If anyone was boring, it was James. Mere robbery was not going to get the detective high. If the criminal believed it would, he was sorely wrong. Then there was the matter of Mycroft. Obviously, if James had overlooked that matter, they were already caught. He had been with the criminal all day and hadn’t seen him do anything to address this…

               “Don’t fret,” James smirked in the blackness, as though he could hear Sherlock’s thoughts. He looked like a ghostly shadow to the detective as he strut down the long hall they were now in, moving with confidence as the rest of the dark figures on the wall wavered and danced.

               “Where are they?” Sherlock asked. He hadn’t seen any security guards at all. The last time that had happened, it had been because a serial killer had-

               Oh.

               “They’ll be here presently,” James lied to him as they reached a large door leading to a room of staircases. The pair began their ascent, the criminal still in front, as Sherlock found himself increasingly more intrigued. What did James have planned? What had he done to get here? Why did he seem ever so smug tonight? The familiar excitement that came with cases was beginning to surface from the depths of the detective’s mind.

               Perhaps it wasn’t the crime itself that was going to get him high. Perhaps it was James. Maybe proving that was the purpose of this excursion.

               Finally, they reached the bottom of the staircase, and were faced with a single door. Sherlock felt a strange sense of déjà vu, though he wasn’t sure why. It felt like he and James were inside of a cave; there was only blackness above them and around them, where the illumination of his phone couldn’t reach.

               The detective was surprised when James turned on his heel to face away from the door and towards him. With a quick flirtatious glance as he brushed past Sherlock, the criminal made his way to the underside of the last flight of stairs, where the detective was now shining the bluish light of the phone.

               Another door, and another keypad.

               “If you wanted public sex, this is a bit conservative,” Sherlock said sarcastically. James chuckled, and the unearthly, echoing noise sent chills up the detective’s spine for more than one reason. Donning a single, black glove, the criminal typed in a ten digit passcode. Awfully secure for an art museum…

               The door clicked open, and both men entered a room that made the previous seem as bright as the hospital laboratory. A strange, whimpering sound came from a corner to their far left, and as Sherlock’s eyes adjusted he noticed thousands of shapes around him.

               _Artifacts._

“Mycroft likes to keep some toys to himself,” James explained, “Sharing is caring, IS IT NOT, JAIME?”

               The whimpering stopped cold. Sherlock felt a twinge of pity for the boy before it was reduced to ashes by the flames of excitement now roaring in his chest. Thousands of statues, chests, sarcophaguses, and the like filled the room, making it a maze of lost history. He’d never much cared for old stories, but the detective felt as though he was surrounded by so much forbidden information that he couldn’t help but feel invigorated.

               James licked his lips, black eyes searching for the safe he knew must be around here, somewhere…

               Slowly, ever so slowly, the criminal began picking his way through the maze. His shadow seemed to be an entity in itself, dancing across the room as the position of the phone, still their only source of light, changed with Sherlock.

               _There._

Sherlock knew it was what James wanted as soon as his eyes fell on it. He cleared his throat, and the criminal was at his side in seconds. James gave him a light kiss on the cheek, whisper of ‘well done’ tickling his skin and spurring his heart into a faster beat, before the criminal proceeded to kneel in front of the safe.

               The detective heard a click, and James opened the door of the box slowly, seeming to revel in every moment. The small amount of light from the phone was reflecting off whatever was inside a great deal, and the criminal’s pupils rapidly contracted with the amount of light they were suddenly taken in.

               Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together in curiosity as James slowly, carefully, reached into the safe. He would never have anticipated what was pulled out.

               The criminal’s eyes seemed to devour it in a beautiful combination of fascination, madness, and greed. In his hands was a skull; a skull carved out of what looked like crystal. It seemed to almost emit an aura of energy, and even Sherlock couldn’t help but take a slightly deeper breath as he moved closer to the artifact. His eyes raked across the object, growing increasingly frantic with frustration. This didn’t escape James’s notice, and the criminal grinned wryly.

               “Beauty, isn’t it?” he commented smugly, gaging Sherlock’s reaction with satisfaction.

               “But this is quartz!” Sherlock deduced, trying to figure out what he was missing.

               “Indeed it is.”

               “Quartz can’t be carved like this, it’s physically impossible.”

               “And yet,” James’s eyes rose to meet Sherlock’s gaze, “Here we are.”

               “Why?” the detective asked.

               “Other people want it,” James explained matter of factly, “You can imagine why.”

               “…No.”

               The criminal licked his lips, “Rumor has it,” he said, “That this has information on it.”

               “…What kind of information?” Sherlock had heard the theory. Quartz could (apparently) be used to store colossal amounts of digital data, but he’d never considered it very likely. Even if there was a way to organize it, if it was worthwhile, someone would have figured out a way to sell it by now…

               His eyes fell on James. _Oh…_

               “That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” the criminal remarked.

               Silence fell for a moment before Sherlock continued, “Who’s the client?”

               James mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key, “I’m _sworn_ to secrecy, darling. Although I promise you that the queen won’t hate me _too_ much if she finds out who has her precious skull.”

               Suddenly, a door slammed open, and Sherlock immediately shut off his phone, while James and he watched light spill into the doorway, followed by several figures in uniform and a frantic looking woman.

               The criminal hissed under his breath, fury rearing its ugly head. The bitch was going to pay for this.

               “JAIME!” her panicked voice rang out in the darkness, “JAIME, WHERE ARE YOU?”

               “Mom?” a weak male voice answered her, and two armed figures ran by dangerously close to where James and Sherlock now crouched. The detective heard a distinctive click from next to him, and before he knew it the first shot rang out. Something large and heavy hit the floor with a thump. A woman screamed, and chaos erupted.

               Something tackled Sherlock to the ground, pinning his arms down to the floor. The detective snarled as he gave the police officer a swift kick to the crotch, sending him howling. Sherlock reversed their positions, using his arms and legs to pin down each of the man’s respective appendages. He was able to effectively keep the man down, despite the significant difference in their body weights, until his eyes fell on James.

               The rate that bodies were dropping around the criminal was a fascinating mixture of admirable and terrifying. James had told him once that he didn’t like getting his hands dirty, but it was clear now that he knew how. In fact, he was rather good at it.

               The criminal fought _dirty_ ; like an animal, he kept his teeth bared in a snarl as he mercilessly knocked bodies to the ground. He used whatever resources he could find; sometimes his gun, sometimes his fists, and sometimes the artifacts he was surrounded by. It disturbed Sherlock to think about what events could teach a man to fight like that. There had been seven officers to begin with, and now six were on the ground, surrounded by pools of blood. The seventh had escaped the detective’s grip as he had gazed in morbid fascination at James, and was had barely begun drawing back a fist to hit Sherlock before another shot rang out and he fell on top of the detective, completely limp.

               Sherlock wriggled out from under the man and gingerly picked up the crystal skull from where it had been left by James. When he straightened up, he saw James standing over the cowering Martha and Jaime.

               The detective turned away and winced as another two shots were fired. _John wouldn’t have done that._

_But would he have?_

James tsked to himself, “Such a shame,” he remarked emotionlessly to no one in particular, “Don’t they know it’s better to just listen?”

               Sherlock considered not this question, but whether he would still feel the high he felt right now if Lestrade had been one of the officers that had run through the door. He did a quick check of the faces nearest him, visible now that his eyes had adjusted more to the darkness. When his eyes found James again, the criminal was staring at him.

               James casually made his way over to the detective, as though he hadn’t just killed nine people. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, gazing up at his lover with a tenderness that, to the detective, seemed completely mad, given their current situation.

               Sherlock licked his lips, not breaking eye contact as he set the skull down on the table of artifacts nearest them. He was trying not to notice how aroused James’s stare was making him feel.

               “I thought you said you didn’t like getting your hands dirty,” the detective commented coolly.

               The criminal grinned devilishly, “What can I say, Sherly? You bring out the dirty in me.”

               Sherlock scoffed.

               “You’re still not high,” James remarked.

               “Not quite. Impressive case, though.”

               “Mm,” the criminal hummed, fingers tracing patterns on Sherlock’s neck, “How about we fix that?”

               _They’ll be sending back up._

_Are you mad? There are nine dead people on the floor!_

_This is wrong. Everyone would be so disappointed…_

Sherlock found himself discarding these thoughts as he sank onto the floor with James in the darkness. Both of their hearts were already hammering from adrenaline, and the closeness did nothing to calm them.

               _No time. No time. No time._

Their touches were frantic and rough. James’s teeth were deliciously painful on Sherlock’s neck, and as the detective felt the criminal’s lips wrap around him, he found he was able to cast all of his conscious aside, save for one part.

               John.

               _John used to worry about the biting._

               _John worried this would happen._

_John would hate you now._

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._

John had left him. Sherlock didn’t _want_ to care. It was easier to not care. In fact, he hated John. He _wanted_ to hate John. He wanted John to hate him. It was easier if those eyes looked at him the way they looked at James; as a hopeless case, rather than one that was slowly losing hope.

               Sherlock moaned louder. He pushed those thoughts away. He didn’t want to think, and he was succeeding. All he could see was James as the criminal sucked, and the detective fell into ecstasy as he writhed on the blood stained floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the wait. I hope this was worth it? I thought, ‘what would Moriarty steal?’ (And I was kind of inspired because I was reading up on mysterious artifacts—seriously, look up the crystal skulls sometime. I’m pretty sure one or two are actually in Britain’s possession, and they’re actually really cool!). R&R and I’ll see you lovelies soon.


	35. Scarves

Lestrade could feel himself eroding from the inside. Not because of guilt, or because of stress, but because of the sheer _weight_ of the information he had come into a few weeks ago.

               Everyone who could have changed it, who could have stopped it, had done nothing. Mycroft was essentially the _British government_ , and he hadn’t done anything to prevent his little brother from dating a criminal psychopath.

               Was Jim- or _James_ , truly a psychopath? Lestrade didn’t know anymore. Maybe he had human feelings, and merely chose to ignore them.

               _Like Sherlock_ …

               No. Not like Sherlock. Greg refused to believe that James was in any way similar to Sherlock.

               And yet, in recent days he had noticed that there were less and less ways the two men were different. There had been something…odd that had surfaced within Sherlock lately. It was deeply disturbing, and Lestrade didn’t know what he would do if the implications it brought were true.

               There was something colder in the detective’s eyes as of late. Sherlock had never been one to have a comforting gaze, but this was… something different. Lestrade used to see the detective’s icy gaze soften when he looked at James, but now that didn’t seem so prevalent. The two looked at one another now as if they were in on some sort of a joke, not as though they wanted to wrap the other in their arms.

               Perhaps he was being paranoid. The signs of a typical couple _were_ there. John had complained about their affection on multiple occasions before he had moved out. James encouraging Sherlock’s experiments, the cheeky winks they (apparently) gave one another from across the room, the incessant texting…

               Come to think of it, the texting was definitely still going on. In fact, if anything, it was happening more than usual.

               And then there were the things that Lestrade himself had noticed. The most prevalent was the couple’s knack for switching clothes. Every once in a while, instead of a blue scarf around Sherlock’s neck and a red one around Moriarty’s, they would switch accessories, and go about the case as usual.

               He knew most people would think it cute, but whenever James was next to Sherlock, Lestrade couldn’t help but get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

               It wasn’t that he didn’t think Sherlock was happy with Moriarty; of course he was sure the criminal provided the mental stimulation the detective craved, not to mention company, now that John was living with Mary. Of course Sherlock must enjoy the criminal’s company—otherwise why would he overlook their previous rivalry?

               But whenever Lestrade saw that red scarf around Sherlock’s neck, he couldn’t help but see it as a label. He couldn’t see it as anything other than James’s way of saying ‘He’s mine—only mine.’ Greg hated to admit it, but there was a part of him… a rather sizeable part, that still deeply, deeply feared Moriarty. He desperately wished that seeing the criminal in the flesh more often had desensitized him to James’s aura of fear that he always seemed to project, but this was not the case.

               _Maybe he likes it that way_.

               The horrifying truth of Lestrade’s recent philosophies on the consulting couple was that, perhaps, James brought out something in Sherlock that people like Sally had always feared.

               He really had nothing to go on besides the detective’s recent demeanor, but now that John was gone, Lestrade was unsure whether, without anyone to rein him in, Sherlock could retain his morals. James struck Greg as the possessive type- so what was stopping him from finding a way to ensure Sherlock would be his, and only his, for the rest of their lives?

               These thoughts plagued Lestrade as he drummed his fingers against the hood of the police car, brow furrowed. His gaze was heavy as he watched Sherlock and James approach. They had, on this occasion, switched their scarves, and the detective looked strangely more intimidating in red than in his usual blue.

               “Hey you two,” the silver haired man nodded solemnly at the pair in greeting.

               “You said it was urgent,” Sherlock said, cutting to the chase.

               “It is,” Greg said with a pointed glance at James, only to see the criminal staring back with what could only be interpreted as an expression of deep concern.

               “What’s been stolen?” James asked, nodding towards the museum behind Lestrade. The detective inspector glanced behind him before answering in a hushed voice.

               “Something important. Let’s just say a lot of people are unhappy about its disappearance. And not _just_ Mycroft’s people. We weren’t the only country who wanted to keep the thing a secret.”

               “What _thing_?” Sherlock snapped.

               Greg sighed, “It’s a skull made of crystal. I know it sounds trivial but-”

               “Not trivial,” James interrupted, “I’ve heard of it. There are a lot of powerful people that want it.”

               “…Right,” Lestrade said uncertainly, “Well, whoever took it must have really wanted it, because there’s nine dead people in the basement down there. One looks like he can’t be over sixteen.”

               Silence from the two consultants. Lestrade studied them intently, searching for any signs of emotion.

               “Well?” Sherlock finally broke the silence, “You called us here for a reason.”

               “Right! Sherlock, go ahead, I’ll be right behind you,” Lestrade had to raise his voice for the second half of his sentence, as the detective had already set off in the direction of the crime scene. James didn’t move to follow him, and Greg suppressed a shiver as he exchanged stares with Moriarty.              

               “You wanted to speak with me,” the Irishman deduced smoothly.

               “I’m not going to ask how you knew that,” Lestrade said defiantly.

               “Good. I’m glad that by now you’ve realized it’s better to remain in the dark. Monsters can’t find you as easily there. Although, if you’d truly learned your lesson, you wouldn’t have wanted to speak with me.”

               Lestrade took a deep, quavering breath, “I’m…not going to acknowledge what you just said-”

               “Good. I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself. How’s Johnny?”

               Greg frowned, “Why do you care about what John’s doing?”

               Moriarty leaned uncomfortably close, and Lestrade, to his disgust, could smell mint on his breath, “I’ve never cared for _John_.”

               “Why does that not surprise me?”

               “It shouldn’t.”

               A silence far too long fell between the two, and Lestrade found himself breaking it just so he could get away from those _eyes_ quicker.

               “…Is this yours?” the silver haired man gestured towards the crime scene.

               James’s brow furrowed, and he looked almost insulted, “ _This_? My God, what do you take me for? I’ve got bigger fish to fry than stealing Mycroft’s toys.”

               “There are nine dead people in the basement, it seemed like your sort of thing,” Lestrade remarked tiredly.

               James sighed, “Is this all you wanted to ask?”

               Lestrade forced himself to meet the criminal’s eyes, “Just…don’t hurt anyone, okay?” James was slightly taken aback at the weakness in his voice, “You know I have no power to control what you do, but please _try_ not to hurt anyone.”

               Greg was a little bit shocked at the confusion clouding the criminal’s gaze.

               “I think,” James said slowly, “it’s a little bit late for that.”

<br />

               _Take care of Mr. Woodruff. –JM_

_Will do, boss. Special requests? –SM_

_No. Just get it done. –JM_

James finally caught up with Sherlock as he sent the last text, still feeling grumpy that a top employee had failed. This was a sloppy crime scene, and because of one faulty thread in his web, he was now going to have to be extremely careful for a few months to ensure that no light was shed on his operation. Sherlock would have to go without his high…

               On second thought, James decided that this man had done too much damage to ensure a quick death.

               _On second thought, something painful would be nice. –JM_

_Of course. –SM_

_Don’t screw this up. I’m already in a poor mood. –JM_

_Of course, boss. –SM_

               “What did you do?” Sherlock asked lowly.

               “He’s taken care of. More than taken care of,” James’s eyes raked over the crime scene, not looking anything like it had the night before, now that it wasn’t pitch dark.

               Sherlock sighed, “Lestrade knows, doesn’t he?”

               James said nothing.

               “Doesn’t he?”

               The criminal nodded slowly, and Sherlock bit his lip worriedly.

               “He won’t do anything, Sherly,” James said softly, “I promise you.”

               “But will you do anything?” Sherlock asked quietly.

               “…No. I promise,” The criminal didn’t meet the detective’s eyes as he said it.

<br />

               Semen. At the crime scene.

               It was just a trace, but Lestrade knew that it was something James and Sherlock had chosen to brush over. They would have deduced it in half a second, and neither had said a thing. If it hadn’t been for Anderson, it would have gone completely unnoticed.

               He had known that he wouldn’t like what he found when he did the DNA test. Greg for this reason was careful to ensure he was the only person in the room when the machine read out the results and created a match.

               _Sherlock Holmes_

_Unknown_

               Lestrade put his face in his hands. _Why this, Sherlock? Why him?_

               He refused to believe Sherlock had been present when all those people had been killed, but Lestrade couldn’t deny that the evidence against the detective was overwhelming. Sherlock and (undoubtedly) James had been intimate in the same basement where a government artifact was stolen, and nine people had died. Both were playing with fire, and eventually, they were going to get burned. Once he had hard, concrete, undeniable proof that Sherlock was working for James, Lestrade wouldn’t hesitate to arrest him, no matter how close of friends they were (which admittedly, wasn’t very close). Maybe he had misjudged the detective. Maybe he wasn’t as great of a man as he’d initially thought.

               Now, whenever Lestrade saw Sherlock and Moriarty walking side by side, scarves blowing in the wind, all he could see were ropes around their necks.


	36. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TW: Bullying, mentions of drug relapse.

James was losing patience.

               He had tried, oh had he tried, to let it slide, but he could only take so much.

               The first time hadn’t been…horrible.

               Sherlock had asked him to go buy milk for an experiment. James, reluctantly, had turned around to leave. He still remembered freezing in his tracks, his stomach dropping and his blood running cold, at the words called absentmindedly after him.

               “Thank you, John.”

               The detective, evidently, had realized his mistake a second too late, and James still remembered the look of horror on Sherlock’s face as he’d looked over his shoulder. The criminal hadn’t been able to force himself to stay for the apology. He’d left and returned in silence, making sure to hold Sherlock a little bit tighter than usual that night.

               To only have it happen once was… tolerable. James remembered what had happened last time he’d left Sherlock. The horrible, gut wrenching heartbreak had been something he could never delete from his mind palace, no matter how hard he tried. Jealousy had almost turned him away from Sherlock once, and he wasn’t overeager to let it happen again.

               The incidents, however, were happening more and more often now. Especially on cases, Sherlock seemed helpless to his feelings for John, whatever those were. _Constantly_ , James had to endure:

               “John, will you-”

               “Oh, _please,_ John-”

               “John, I-”

               _John, John, John._

James knew it was on accident, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. It wasn’t merely the fact that Sherlock pined after his best friend, but what that implied.

               _He has me right here,_ James thought.

               All this time, the criminal had thought he controlled the high ground, but now… now he questioned whether Sherlock had ever loved him more than John.

               _Why_ did Sherlock care for such an ordinary person? What did John have that James didn’t?

               _Everything Carl had. There’s something wrong with you, not him,_ a snide voice from the corner of James’s mind spoke up.

               The criminal had never admitted it to the detective, but something about John was so… _Carl Powers._ Whenever James looked at him all he saw was the boy who had first provoked him towards killing in the first place. To have Sherlock… care for such a person was…twisted.

               It was so _wrong_. James had never had the best sense of morals but oh _God_ , there was something that felt so wrong about John and Sherlock. Because if Sherlock loved John, to _any_ degree, then that meant he loved _Carl Powers_. And what did that mean for James? He still remembered tasting blood in his mouth, having his fingers broken one by one, the sting of skin ravaged by nails…

               If Sherlock loved that monster, then did he really love James? The criminal knew that, more than anything, he loved Sherlock. But what if he’d overestimated the detective’s returned feelings? What if, all this time, he’d been a replacement for John? He’d been alone most of his life, what if his feelings for Sherlock had only covered up the fact that he was still, in fact, completely alone? Perhaps caring _was_ a disadvantage, after all…

               And then there was the fact that John lived with _Mary_.

               Whenever he thought about it, James felt sick.

               _He’s fucking your sister._

_He’s fucking your sister._

_He’s fucking your sister._

_She_ likes _it…_

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, no matter how hard he tried. Whenever James saw them together, his mind seemed to construct a disgusting image of Carl, pinning his baby sister down and-

               _No, no, no._

And yet, everyone else seemed fine with it. Everyone else _loved_ John. All these damn ordinary people with their ordinary feelings seemed to have no issue with him.

               James hated all of them. What had happened to his bliss with Sherlock and Mary, he would never know, but now John was in his way.

               If things didn’t take a turn for the better soon, he wasn’t sure what he would do.

               Sherlock already missed the doctor; and was still on the edge of another relapse.

               _And I couldn’t fix that._ James had been trying, oh had he been trying, to improve the intricacy of the crimes he and Sherlock organized. Nothing seemed to keep the detective occupied enough to bring back the light to his eyes that the doctor seemed to put there.

               Well, they’d just have to try harder. If it came to murder, it came to murder. No one was taking his angel away.

               _No one._


	37. Spell

Sherlock wasn’t stupid.

               Despite pretending to be aloof to many social customs, he was far from ignorant when it came to reading people. He knew there was something wrong.

               People…looked at him differently now. Even Mary seemed a little bit more reserved than usual. Lestrade obviously knew, now, about James’s true identity. The detective wasn’t sure of how much he knew of the crimes they committed together.

               Lestrade at least had a reason to be more reserved. However, he’d noticed even _Molly_ had become more timid as of late, and it was worrying, to say the least. What if more people knew than he’d initially thought? What if… John had told them?

               Sherlock felt not angry at this possibility…instead he just felt empty. He’d wanted not to care about John, but that seemed like an impossibility at this point. John was…gone. The detective didn’t feel he could ever be redeemed in the doctor’s eyes, and there was something about that that made him feel deeply, deeply disgusted with himself.

               Of course, he knew he had every _right_ to be with James. He knew that James made him _happy_ , but to what cost?

               Sherlock rested his head on the window of 221B, gazing up at the dreary sky. He liked the feel of the cool glass against his skin.

               He had been doing some thinking, recently. He didn’t like where it led him but something told him he’d avoided it too long.

               James was… unstable. He always had been, and he likely always would be. But Sherlock felt as though he forgot sometimes, in his haze of emotions, who exactly he was spending his time with.

               He, Sherlock Holmes, was worried. And, if he admitted it, incredibly sad, as well.

               _He stabbed you. He tried to get you to kill yourself. And a few nights ago, you helped him commit murder. A child died. Happy?_

No, he wasn’t happy. In fact, as previously stated, he was deeply, deeply disgusted with himself.

               What had he done? At some point, had he, in his selfishness, allowed himself to believe that it was _okay_ to kill another human? John had done it for him once, but that had been because he cared about Sherlock. The detective had been assisting in killings merely for the thrill of it…

               He was a serial killer. Just like James.

               Now he understood why even Mycroft seemed to harbor a slight apprehension whenever in his presence. He was dangerous. He killed out of loneliness, ironic as it was. Maybe he _was_ a psychopath, just like Moriarty-

               And yet, whenever Sherlock was around James, all these worries seemed to disappear. He would be content to get lost in the criminal’s eyes, never to return. He would rather be locked in a cell for the rest of his life, with only James for company, than have to face John about what he had done.

               But _John_ …

               The detective _ached_ for his blogger. No matter what he did, he could never get over John. It was _infuriating_ , and it made no logical sense, because compared to James, the doctor had never been close to Sherlock at all.

               _That’s not true_.

               _Is it?_

               Sherlock wanted James. He _needed_ James. But there was a part of him that sometimes wished he had never met the criminal. Sometimes, he just wanted to go back to solving cases with John. Back when Lestrade and Molly and everyone else could look on him with admiration, not fear, in their eyes.

               _You would have been bored._

_You HAD SEX after killing nine people._

_People die. It’s what they do._

_That’s what people do._

Sherlock, to his horror, felt an urge to cry. He felt as though James was forcing him into a dark cage—a cage filled with velvet and animal hides and luxury goods… and his friends’ heads on stakes. _God_ , but he loved James. This was what he had chosen, but he was starting to question whether he’d chosen correctly. It had been so easy to stay with the criminal, instead of trying to get John to stay.

               What if he’d chosen wrong?

               And why, if he had chosen wrong, was he itching for another crime to commit?


	38. Fight

James studied the detective mixing chemicals. They were in the hospital, on their first case since John had left on his honeymoon with Mary, and, to James’s disdain, Sherlock was obviously not dealing with his friend’s absence well. He mixed chemicals with an increased vigor, his shoulders were hunched, and he seemed determined to ignore the criminal’s presence.

               “Sherlock,” James sighed, rolling his eyes.

               No response.

               “I know you can hear me,” James hated it when the detective was stubborn. It was like dealing with a child.

               Still no response.

               “I know you miss him,” James said knowingly.

               A slight raise of the eyebrows this time, but Sherlock still didn’t look up from his work.

               “Alright, if you want to act like a child, then go ahead,” James was through dealing with this, “If you need me, call Molly instead.” The criminal knew he himself could handle the situation better, but the only way to get a reaction from Sherlock when he was like this was to provoke him. He started stalking towards the door.

               “Wait.”

               James turned around slowly, “What?”

               “Don’t leave. It slows my thinking process,” there were a thousand other things Sherlock wanted to say, but those words were the only ones that passed his lips.

               “You’ll have to work slower, then,” James turned towards the door again, not satisfied with the detective’s response.

               Sherlock sighed loudly, temper rising, “Well what do you want me to say?”

               “I don’t know, darling, use that large mind of yours to think of something,” James grinned cruelly.

               “So you want a deep confession of love?” Sherlock sneered, “I didn’t realize that was your sort of thing.”

               “You know that’s not quite true,” James said quietly, actually wounded by the statement. Sherlock was one of the only people who knew him as more than a cruel killer, and the fact that he chose to ignore this was quite depressing. It reduced James to the monster most of the world saw him as.

               “Well, perhaps I need to look closer,” Sherlock snapped, going back to work. He wasn’t sure why he felt so angry. Suddenly, the detective wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

               “Do you think this isn’t hard for me too, Sherlock?” James’s voice was steadily rising, “You’ve called me ‘John’ at least six times already! Do you _know_ what that _implies_?”

               “What?” the word cut like a knife, and Sherlock finally looked up from his work to James again, “What does it imply?”

               “It implies, _Sherlock_ , that I’m a stand in for John. You know how protective he is over you? How much he tries to keep me from you? Do you even _know_ the _looks_ I’ve had to endure? The cold stares? Do you not _realize_ ,” James began to shout, “that HE IS THE EMBODIMENT OF CARL POWERS, AND NOW HE’S GONE, AND YOU’RE SHUTTING ME OUT! YOU _LOVE_ HIM SHERLOCK! I’M JUST A STAND IN; I DON’T MATTER, BECAUSE HE WAS FIRST! AND NOW THAT HE’S GONE, YOU’RE LEFT WITH ME!” James swallowed the lump in his throat, jaw clenched and chest heaving.

               “WELL HOW IS IT MY FAULT THAT HE RESEMBLES A CHILDHOOD BULLY WHO PUSHED YOU ON THE PLAYGROUND?” Sherlock got up from where he sat, eyes cutting into James.

               The criminal stood seething for a moment, madness rearing its ugly head and surfacing from the depths of his eyes, “Say that again,” his voice was dangerously quiet. It almost sounded as if he was lulling a child to sleep.

               Sherlock took a deep breath. He knew he should stop, but his anger was too far gone now.

               “The bully who pushed you on the playground,” his voice was deadly calm now, too, but dripping with contempt.

               James closed the distance between him and the detective and delivered the hardest slap he possibly could to Sherlock’s face. The crack seemed to echo though the room, and James raked his nails down the detective’s face as he pulled his hand away, drawing a small but painful amount of blood. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, leaving a stunned and heartbroken Sherlock frozen just where he left him.

               This was the problem with loving people; they always left you, one way or another.


	39. Kiss

Sherlock stared down at the chemicals in front of him, still reeling from James’s slap. Suddenly, he found himself unable to focus on the formulas laid out in front of him. His heart hammered in his chest and the vibrations thrummed through his skull, making it so that he could barely focus on a single thought besides that he was miserable.

               Guilt was already turning his stomach. Carl Powers had been James’s first kill. Of course there was something traumatic there. Why had he so desperately wanted to hurt James?

               _Because you miss John._

_If you’re going to be lonely, you might as well lose connections now._

Sherlock discarded those thoughts with a grimace. _How stupid had he been?_ What sick part of him had thought it was alright to discredit such a traumatic part of James’s childhood?

               _Maybe it’s part of what he’s done to me._

That didn’t mean it was a good reason to do it. Sherlock himself winced at the history of James’s childhood… he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have someone you trusted, someone you cared about more than anyone else, mock you for it.

               _God, I was a fool._

His cheek stung where James’s nails had made contact with it. The criminal had been angry. Truly, deeply angry. Sherlock wondered if James would come back to 221B tonight.

               From the corner of his eye, the detective saw a door open and a flash of auburn hair. _Ugh, Molly._ Sherlock didn’t feel like seeing anyone, right this moment.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she greeted lightly, setting down a tray with several glinting, silver instruments on it.

               The detective swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, praying that by some mystical deity, she wouldn’t ask him about the blood or obvious red mark on his cheek.

               “Sherlock?” Molly asked gently as the detective inwardly cursed. Sherlock didn’t look up from his work, answering in a noncommittal grunt. He hated the way his voice, even without spoken word, shook.

               “Sherlock are those… what happened to your face?”

               She sounded genuinely concerned, and the detective was secretly grateful. At least she was worried rather than afraid of him.

               Sherlock licked his lips, forcing down his emotions, “Nothing that should be of any concern to you,” he said coldly, still hoping she would go away.

               “…did James do that?” Molly asked timidly. She knew very well that she was treading dangerously.

               There was a long pause. Finally, Sherlock decided that telling her would simply cause unnecessary worry. If she knew, Lestrade would know, and then John… they would all think it was worse than it really was.

               “Don’t you have something to do?” the detective asked cruelly.

               Molly blinked sadly, still staring at him, and Sherlock found it was extremely challenging not to look up from his work, in the newly formed silence, to glare at her.

               “…you know, if you ever need to talk to someone…you can talk to me, Sherlock,” her voice was like bells.

               “Good thing I don’t _need_ to talk to anyone, then.”

               “Yes, you do,” Molly said a little more forcefully, “I think… I think it’s good to have more than one person you can-”

               Sherlock scoffed caustically, “Coming from _you_ , that’s brilliant advice. You dated him first, remember?”

               Molly only nodded slowly to herself, standing still and taking the insult before trying a new tactic.

               “He’s really jealous, you know. Lestrade and I, we can tell.”

               “…common problem with these things.”

               “No, but, Sherlock…I know you miss John. He misses you too.”

               The detective sighed sadly, “What are you implying?”

               “That you two need counseling, or else this will get worse.”

               Sherlock laughed harshly, “I believe people like James and I are _beyond_ counseling, Molly. Most of those idiots don’t know what they’re doing anyway…”

               “…does he think I’m an idiot?”

               Sherlock was taken aback by the strange question, and answered it as truthfully as he could, “…not really.”

               That right there was the reason the detective didn’t take advice from Molly. She tried so hard to be there for everyone, but in reality, she herself still had countless repressed issues that had never been dealt with.

               It was still a nice thought, though.

               “Molly,” Sherlock continued, much more softly this time, “I’d like to be alone. Thank you. Tell Lestrade and John… tell everyone I’m fine.”

               Molly nodded quietly before leaving.

<br />

               Sherlock had never wanted James to find out, and he intended that the criminal never did, about what had happened on the Baskerville case. James had enough issues with jealousy as it was, and it wasn’t important information, anyway. And yet, every day, he ached with the worry that somehow, in some way, the criminal would find out.

               Both he and John had been so… exhilarated post case. Sherlock had been very, as John put it; ‘wired’ and… he had still been determining his feelings at that point.

               After all, John had been the first human he’d had legitimate feelings for, platonic or not, since _childhood_. Of course he had been confused. Hell, he had been more confused than he’d been falling for _James_. That, truly, was saying something.

               Sherlock remembered watching John’s lips with curiosity. That was what humans did when they cared, wasn’t it? There were certain actions that went along with extreme care. And he _had_ cared for John to a great degree, then. He still did now, regardless of the doctor’s newfound reservations that had come along with James.

               He had been watching John as he talked, watching as his pupils remained undilated, despite Sherlock’s intense gaze. That hadn’t stopped the detective. One minute John was talking to him and the next… he wasn’t.

               John had stopped talking, then beginning to stare back at Sherlock in confusion. Surely that stare hadn’t meant what he’d thought it meant? Sure enough, Sherlock had found himself leaning in and...

               Nothing. Nothing had ever come of it. Sherlock hadn’t relished the taste of John’s lips, he hadn’t longed for the feeling of the doctor’s tongue in his mouth, or hands on his skin. Comparing it to James’s kisses now, the difference was even more stark. James was like a drug, whereas John… John was more like tea. Something stable that held you together; something warm to comfort you; something that didn’t change you.

               Sherlock had been the first to break the kiss. Neither of them had really moved much in the few seconds it lasted. The detective had cocked his head to the side and, with a slight furrow of the brow, said two words:

               “Apologies, John.”

               Neither he nor John had ever spoken of it again. And, truly, there was no need. Sherlock had learned that day the difference between platonic and non-platonic, and that had been that. To this day, he loved John, but not in the way that James thought he did.

               However, the thought of the criminal finding out about this one, microscopic event in his and John’s relationship was terrifying. Because no matter how many times he told James otherwise, he knew that the knowledge of that single, folly of a kiss, would be proof of his so called ‘love’ for John Watson.

               No, James could never know. And it was because of this that Sherlock felt a strange, deep sadness within him. The criminal could tell him _anything_. James could spill every secret he’d ever buried within him to the detective, and yet Sherlock had to hide things from him. Sherlock could never be as open with James as the criminal was with him, because every secret he told was a grenade. If he so desired, James could pull the pin, and tear the relationship apart.

               _John wouldn’t make you hide things._

That, in itself, was a terrifying revelation. What if Molly was right? What if the day he’d released James from his chains, the day James had stolen his heart, had been a mistake? Or, even worse, what if the criminal _wasn’t_ a mistake, and Sherlock himself was the reason troubles were arising? What if, because he’d stopped putting his foot down as far as crime went, that was the reason the relationship was falling apart?

               The worst part was, in spite of all this, Sherlock was still hopelessly in love with James Moriarty.


	40. Heal

When Sherlock entered the flat, night had already fallen outside. It was fairly dark inside the room as well, but the detective knew better than to think it was unoccupied. A familiar figure lay in his chair, legs draped over the side, seeming to study the ceiling. James knew what was coming, and he almost wished that it wouldn’t happen. It would be simpler to go back to not caring.

               “You’re here,” Sherlock said to the blackness, tone neutral.

               “I live here,” James responded coolly.

               “You have other flats you could have spent the night at,” Sherlock pointed out.

               “Did you come to mock me?” James asked.

               “We both know I didn’t.”

               James sighed, “This whole affair has weakened both of us considerably, won’t you say? We used to be gods, Sherlock. Now we fight like petty children.” He got up to face the detective, turning a light on as he did so.

               “Being a god got boring,” Sherlock said, taking a step towards James, “for both of us, I think.”

               “True,” James said expressionlessly.

               “I’m…sorry.”

               “That doesn’t mean things will change,” James said bitterly, “You still miss him.”

               “I wish I didn’t,” Sherlock said deeply, “I wish he hadn’t left me; found someone better, more stable. Everyone has a first choice.”

               James was a bit shocked that the detective was being so honest. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel better or worse.

               “And so here we are,” James said, “Two madmen together, because we were rejected by the rest of the world.”

               “Don’t romanticize it,” Sherlock sneered.

               “You know I love fairy tales, darling, it comes naturally,” James drawled. Silence fell for a moment before he continued, “Did you… _do_ you… love John?”

               “Yes. Not like you.”

               “…Explain.”

               “John was my best friend. He was the first person I really connected with after I isolated myself. Losing him to someone else is a feeling I can’t begin to describe the…grief of.”

               “I see,” James whispered.

               “Does he really remind you of Carl Powers?” Sherlock asked curiously, but gently.

               Rather than answering, James closed the distance between them and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, leading him silently to the couch, where they sat down before continuing.

               “The physical traits were enough to put me off from the start,” James finally said, “Blonde hair. Short, but muscular. Plain eyes. The way he held himself, too. As though every daily task is a war to be fought.”

               “I see,” Sherlock said softly.

               James sighed, “But you want the entire story.” A part of him hesitated to tell this to Sherlock. This would be the first time he’d told anyone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have anyone knowing what Carl had done to him. It would change who he was to them, and that wasn’t something James wanted. “I can’t tell you, Sherlock.”

               “Why not?” Sherlock frowned, confused.

               “I…Sherlock, you... you cannot _imagine_ …” James found himself unable to say anything more, and it frustrated him to no end.

               Sherlock felt a great weight in his stomach at the fact that James didn’t feel he could tell him. Perhaps this was just another mystery about humans he would never solve. There really was nothing he could say to the criminal to make him feel better. No amount of words would heal what had originally left James Moriarty so twisted, so damaged that he had started a business centering around murder.

               Instead, the detective held the criminal’s hand, giving it a small squeeze as he vaguely remembered his mother doing to him when he was young. They sat there like that for a moment in silence before James leaned in to kiss the detective. When their lips met it was bittersweet with healing and things that could never be fixed.

               When James pulled away, he realized he forgave Sherlock, but he also felt a lingering feeling in the back of his head that said he would also never forgive John. Perhaps for making him seem so weak in the eyes of his lover, perhaps for bringing back a man who he’d thought he’d rid the world of long ago, or perhaps because there was truly something wrong with _him_ that made him keep the grudge.

               The rest of the night seemed eerily quiet.

              


	41. Defend

“Do you really think it’ll be here?” James asked unnecessarily.

               Sherlock scoffed, “Of course it will be. He’s cocky; he likes to leave clues. The only difference now from the last time is that he’s going to stumble. But you knew that already.”

               “It’s just _talking,_ Sherly.”

               The detective huffed as they made their way into the hotel.

<br />

               The lobby was nearly empty, as was to be expected on a Wednesday afternoon. The carpeting was elegant, but slightly frayed, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale coffee that wafted through the spacious room. One balding, wiry haired man sat in an armchair, frowning at a newspaper, a blonde woman leaned on a wall near the door, eyes glued to her phone, and an elderly (admittedly well dressed) gentleman with warm eyes was smiling at an old looking copy of _The Hobbit_.

               James frowned, “It’s a great day for a murder,” he grumbled. Sherlock didn’t say anything and made his way over to the bright eyed receptionist. The brunette positively beamed at James and him as they made their way over to the front desk.

               “Hello gentlemen, how may I help you?” he greeted cheerfully. James squinted slightly at his over-whitened teeth.

               “We’ll be needing a room,” Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “What do you have?” he asked sarcastically. This place had obviously seen busier days.

               “Well,” the man looked down at his computer screen, completely serious, “We’ve got pretty much everything. Will you be needing one bed or two?”

               James was growing quickly bored with the small talk, and forced his way into the conversation, “We’ll take a single king. Second floor if you don’t mind. Just for a day.” The criminal slid one of his many credit cards roughly over the counter. It wasn’t as though they’d actually be using the room.

               “Thank you sir,” the man was still smiling as he swiped the card and held out two room keys, “and, I’d just like to say that here we welcome all walks of life-”

               “Yes, lovely, thank you,” Sherlock grabbed the keys and he and James walked briskly towards the elevator, feeling the man’s gaze on their backs.

               “Enjoy your stay!” he called after them.

               “Oh, don’t worry,” Sherlock murmured under his breath, “We will.”

               “Temper, temper,” James chided softly. Interestingly, no one wondered why two men staying the night had no bags with them.

<br />

               “Not bad,” James remarked, leaning up against a police car, “Put the poison in the coffee. I’d thought it smelled off,” he smirked. The criminal and Sherlock stood under the night sky, surrounded by a pathetically small number of hotel goers and the police that had evacuated them.

               “That’s what I thought,” Sherlock said monotonously, “neat.”

               James laughed humorlessly, “Not in a literal sense. People are bound to ask questions when bodies start dropping as they read the morning paper.”

               The detective snorted, “The comics can’t be that bad.” He noticed with slight disdain a blonde woman- the same one from the lobby, earlier, approaching him from the corner of his eye. Her head was thrown back, as were her shoulders, and her hair was wound up in a tight bun.

               _Control freak._

_Unapologetic._

_Likes golf._

_Single._

_High paying job._

_Close with family._

_Secret fear._

Sherlock was about to turn back to James when he realized that the criminal was now standing a good distance away, talking on the phone to (undoubtedly) Sebastian, about something on the opposite side of the yellow tape. Perfect. Now he had to deal with the girl on his own.

               “Excuse me?” she asked as she finally reached the detective.

               Sherlock turned towards her.

               _Static in hair- she’s been obsessing over fixing it._

_Dilated pupils- not from darkness; there’s light right behind me. Sexually interested._

_Licking lips frequently- oh, perfect._

               “Yes?” the detective prompted, not as kindly as he could have.

               She licked her lips again, “You’re Sherlock Holmes, right?”

               Sherlock sighed, “If you want an autograph, I’ve tried my best to make a point that I _never,_ and _will_ never _,_ start giving them out to anyone. So if that’s what you want, you might as well-”

               “I don’t want an autograph,” she grinned, shaking her head as though the very idea were comical, “I’d like dinner.”

               _Dinner. Why is it always dinner? Why not take me to a crime scene and-_

“Mr. Holmes?” the woman asked again. Sherlock blinked, scrutinizing her with eyes like ice.

               She was pretty. Her demeanor almost reminded him of Irene, though this one was slightly less feminine. She had green eyes, decent skin, and an appealing figure, according to social standards. Maybe he should point her in Lestrade’s direction.

               “Not really my area,” the detective finally responded, ready to analyze her response.

               She didn’t seem even slightly put out, “Oh! Then perhaps we could go and see a movie-”

               “No, I mean,” Sherlock said, “I currently have a partner.”

               “Oh,” she said a little softer this time, with a slightly sheepish smile, “Sorry about that. Was I too forward?”

               The detective cracked a quick grin, “I’ve had worse.”

               “She or he is very lucky to have you,” she gave him a soft smile as she walked away, not giving him a chance to respond.

<br />

               The blonde felt eyes on her as she walked away from the detective. At first, she thought it was Holmes, but when she turned around, he was talking to a silver haired man and a darker skinned girl who looked to be upset with him. She didn’t notice the man approaching her from the side until it was too late.

               “Did you miss me?” an Irish drawl, velvet smooth and sweet like chocolate, sent her blood running cold, as the words were nearly purred into her ear. She nearly choked as the familiar scent of mint hit her nostrils, turning her stomach violently with fear.

               Slowly, she forced herself to turn to face him.

               “You’re here,” her voice was reduced to a whisper as she met his eyes, black as night and deep as oceans. They were like shards of glass, cutting through her skin like surgical instruments to take her apart, piece by piece. She knew he was analyzing her every move, and she hated it.

               “Well spotted,” he said humorlessly, “Did you think I wouldn’t remember you?”

               “I hoped you wouldn’t,” she answered truthfully, “But you knew I would remember you.”

               “Gooood,” he cooed, “Because what girl would forget the criminal who had the nerve to-”

               “Ask me to reach into your pocket and give you your gum. Yes, I remember,” she interrupted, looking at the ground.

               The criminal licked his lips. She was clearly terrified of him. Good.

               “It’s rude to interrupt, darling.”

               “It’s rude to steal the crown jewels.”

               “Just trying to have some fun.”

               The woman’s voice was barely a whisper when she spoke next, “Why are you here?”

               “A better question, _my dear_ , would be why you were speaking to Sherlock Holmes, just now,” the criminal’s voice was dripping with venom.

               “I wasn’t going to tell him about you! I didn’t even know you were here-”

               The criminal chuckled, and she knew she would be hearing that in her nightmares for years to come—if she lived that long.

               “It’s not like _that_ , darling,” he explained, “Oh, it’s not like that at _all_ …” the criminal shook his head, feigning laughing to himself. The blonde was reminded of a shark as she stared at his exposed teeth.

               “I just…I was just asking him out to-”

               “Listen to me and listen closely,” the criminal interrupted, eyes like coal.

               She stared, holding her own hand to keep it from shaking. Her heart felt like it had stopped.

               “If you ever come near Sherlock Holmes again,” he continued, “I’ll skin you alive.”


	42. Protect

_Sherlock, can we talk? –JW_

[Delayed] _Yes. –SH_

[Delayed] _James isn’t home. –SH_

_I’ll be over there in a bit. –JW_

<br />

               Sherlock looked up from his experiment as the door to the flat opened. John was looking around the room as if he’d never been there before; like it was a crime scene where every miniscule detail needed to be observed and remembered. The doctor’s eyes lingered a moment too long on the papers littering the table in front of him before he finally turned around to greet the detective.

               The two stared at one another for a moment.

               “You look…good,” John commented awkwardly.

               Sherlock looked away for a moment, “…John-”

               “No, it’s…no need, Sherlock. I didn’t come here to-”

               “Patronize me for my choice of company?”

               John blinked, “…Right.” They both knew he was lying.

               “Tea?” Sherlock offered coolly. He wondered if John knew how much he was hurting.

               The doctor waved it off, “No, Sherlock… no. Let’s just… sit down.”

               The detective briskly made his way over to his chair, while John hesitated a moment before sitting down in his own, as though he’d forgotten how.

               “I’ve missed you,” Sherlock said unexpectedly.

               “I’ve…missed you too,” John’s brow was furrowed in confusion.

               “Oh, don’t look like that,” the detective narrowed his eyes.

               “Like what?”

               “Like you didn’t know I would miss you.”

               “Sherlock…I didn’t.”

               Sherlock took a shaky breath, “Do you know what that means?” he snapped.

               “…”

               John knew what it meant. Sherlock’s gaze said it all. _I was your best friend. What happened to that?_

“Jim happened,” the doctor said, startling Sherlock with his accurate deduction, “and…Mary and…life.”

               “Life is boring,” the detective grumbled, looking away.

               John sighed, “Maybe it is, Sherlock. But it’s always there.”

               Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “What happened to you?”

               “What do you mean?”

               “What happened to the thrill seeking doctor I met when we first moved in together? What happened to _you_?” _What happened to John Watson?_

John, suddenly angry, stood up, “What happened to _me_? What happened to _you_ , Sherlock? Lestrade told me they found your _semen_ at a crime scene where nine people got killed, along with that of an unknown male. Do you know what that _looks like_?”

               The detective also stood up, “We were there a week earlier. They never clean those floors, you know how it is.”

               “You’re _lying_ ,” John hissed, wanting to cry, “You’re _lying_ , Sherlock, and I wish… I wish you’d never met him. Or…met him as you know him now.”

               “As a human, you mean.”

               “YES, Sherlock! As a human! Jim Moriarty doesn’t _deserve_ to be looked at as a person! He’s a serial killer, he-”

               “John, this isn’t about him, it’s about me-”

               “THIS is the problem, Sherlock! He’s twisted your rationale into seeing him as some… some…”

               “Human.”

               John stared, and Sherlock’s expression was so vulnerable, so helpless, that the doctor could barely believe he was the same person. He felt horribly guilty for what he was saying, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to say.

               “Sherlock, I know you love him. I’m not denying you that. But I worry about Mary. He’s taken a strange liking to her and I can’t figure out why and with the baby I worry that he’s got something planned-”

               “The baby?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

               John paused, “Yes, Sherlock. Mary and I are going to have a baby,” he said softly.

               “...oh,” the detective breathed.

               “So we…we may call less often…”

               “As if you called often to begin with,” Sherlock pointed out cruelly.

               “He’s dangerous,” John said flatly, “He makes people do dangerous things. I know he makes you happy, but I’m…I have to think of my family, Sherlock.”

               Sherlock blinked back tears, “Your family?” his voice shook with the realization that he wasn’t, and never would be, a part of John Watson’s family.

               John didn’t answer, and moved forward as though to hug the detective. Sherlock flinched away, and instead the doctor now offered a handshake.

               “To the very best of times, Sherlock.”


	43. Tease

James’s eyes searched the coffee shop, and he grinned cheekily when they finally found the familiar blonde he was looking for. Mary nodded at him with a twitch of a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. The criminal pondered this with slight apprehension as both sat down with their hot beverages.

               “I was beginning to think you’d grown bored with me,” James smirked, eyes alight with mirth.

               Mary laughed halfheartedly, not sure if she should pretend that everything was normal or not, “Of course not.”

               “Although,” the criminal continued, “it’s clear that, given we meet at the same mediocre shop every time we do this, Johnny hasn’t done much to improve your cultural palette,” he raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge. James was slightly disturbed at the way Mary’s expression seemed to be icing over, but he maintained a light demeanor, hoping he was just overthinking it.

               “Stop doing that, please,” the blonde requested coldly.

               James’s smile faltered, “Stop what?” he cocked his head to the side.

               “You…you always do that,” at the criminal’s raised eyebrow, she continued, “You know; pretend like you’re joking when you bash John.”

               James licked his lips, “And what makes you think I’m pretending?” he asked quietly.

               Mary took a shaky breath, looking away from the monster in front of her and silently praying that nothing would happen to her. Suddenly, James’s soft voice wasn’t comforting in the slightest; it was the most haunting thing she had ever heard.

               The blonde looked down at the table as she said her next words, “I’ve heard…that you’re good at it.” She felt as though she was walking through a field of landmines. When Mary met James’s eyes, she noticed for the first time how dark they really were. They were almost soulless; in the right lighting one couldn’t even tell the pupils from the irises. Even his eyes were almost inhuman.

               “Who did you hear that from?” he asked coolly, studying her.

               Mary glanced away quickly before she answered, “Somebody that loves me.”

               “Ah,” the criminal said, “But how often is it that we find love and lies together?”

               She met his eyes again, feeling a spark of anger alight in her chest, “How often, indeed.”

               “…what did John tell you?” James asked suddenly. _He’s done it. He’s told her, the great fool. She knows._

Mary blinked back tears and, to the criminal’s surprise, reached into her pocket. She unlocked her phone, and, after a moment of scrolling, turned the screen towards James with a shaking hand.

               The criminal took it from her, and felt his stomach drop when he saw the name of the person she had been texting; _M_. His horror only increased tenfold when he started to read the conversations.

               _Senator taken care of. –AG_

_Good. I trust you will find your pay satisfactory. –M_

_My patience is wearing thin. –M_

_Greatest apologies, boss. The situation will be cleaned up very soon. –AG_

_‘Greatest apologies?’ Darling, soon words will not be quite enough for that. Maybe I’ll steal a loved one. Then perhaps you would truly be more careful. –M_

_I beg mercy. This will not happen again. –AG_

_It had better not. –M_

_Because I’m in a good mood, I’ll give you 8 hours head start to run. –M_

The criminal’s eyes lingered on the last statement. He handed the phone back to Mary silently, without meeting her eyes.

               “I used to work for you,” her voice cracked as tears rolled down her cheeks, “When John told me what you were, I realized… there can’t be more than one consulting criminal in London.”

               “…Mary’s not your real name, is it?” the way he said it, it sounded almost accusatory.

               She shook her head, “Is James _yours_?”

               He shook his head, not in answer to her question, but in disbelief. He felt like he had been cheated. He felt as though he’d been teased into believing Mary, or whatever her true name had been, was in any way similar to his sister.

               _She’s been dead for years._

               Suddenly, he realized with a deep, crushing loneliness that he had cared for this Mary for nothing. She was in no way similar to his sister. Not just in physical resemblance, but psychological, as well. He had been so, so foolish. This woman in front of him wasn’t family. She was ordinary. She was the woman John Watson had married. He had fooled himself into believing that emotions had value. And now…now here he was, sitting across the table in a run-down coffee shop, talking to a former employee.

               _Why does John have to ruin everything?_

               James felt a sudden urge to get up and leave. This was boring. He needed to go do something. This was a waste of his time. All of it had been. When his eyes met Mary’s, they were colder than they had ever been before, looking onto her.

               “You worked on AGRA, didn’t you?” he asked casually.

               She gave a small nod, and he drummed his fingers on the table, before making as though to get up and leave. The criminal froze when she, in alarm, grabbed his arm to stop him. James stared at the hand clutching his sleeve as though it were an alien object.

               “Please,” she whispered, “don’t hurt John. Mercy. Please.”

               The criminal regarded her coldly before jerking his hand away and leaving the shop briskly. Rather than hailing a cab, he stalked through the streets, expression blank.

               He didn’t truly feel melancholy. Nor anger. In fact, if James was honest with himself, he didn’t feel anything. He didn’t even feel anything towards Sherlock in that moment. Not even anger towards John. Perhaps it was for the best. The criminal had forgotten how easy it was; not feeling anything. But now he felt _ever_ so bored. He needed entertainment, and he needed it now.

               _Bored. I need a new job. Inspire me. –JM_

_Of course, boss. -SM_


	44. Break

James entered the darkened flat, switching a single light on as he tossed his phone onto the couch, as usual. He noticed a slight chill in the night air, and the criminal felt overly aware of his surroundings. Everything in the flat seemed strangely…ordinary. Rather than memories associated with chairs and tables and holes in the wall, all he seemed to view were the objects themselves. A hole in the wall was just that- a hole in the wall.

               _Scarf gone from the hook, along with coat._ Sherlock wasn’t home, then. James wasn’t feeling particularly anxious to tell the detective of the day’s events, so instead of sending him a text, the criminal sat down and opened his laptop. He had barely begun to type in his passcode, however, when his eyes fell on a small, handwritten note, placed just so that he would catch sight of it. James frowned. Sherlock never left notes. Partially this was because James always knew where he was, and partially it was because if the criminal didn’t know, he could deduce it in half a second.

               This must have been important, then. Sherlock must have been doing something unusual; something James couldn’t deduce. The detective had kept something from him. Where was he? The criminal silently prayed that Sherlock wasn’t, as usual, doing something stupid, before reading the scrawled text.

               _Gone to get gift for Mary and the baby. Won’t be long. –Sherlock_

James stared at the note. His breathing had fallen silent. Suddenly, the flat seemed suffocating; he felt as though he was in a cage. Surely, he had read incorrectly.

               _The baby._

               John and Mary were going to have a baby.

               Sherlock had known, and he hadn’t told him.

               James looked down at the note in his hand, only to realize he had crumpled it into a hard, angular shape, about a tenth of its former size. The criminal let go of the paper, and that was when it hit him.

               Like walking into a brick wall, the rage knocked the breath out of him. It was all encompassing, white hot, blurring his surroundings and turning everything into a vast, plain of white, with only he and the enemy still easy to see. Both stuck out like sore thumbs against the rest of the world, which suddenly didn’t seem all that important at all. Sherlock, for all he cared, didn’t currently exist, because John Watson did.

               A familiar madness swallowed him like a wave, dragging him down to a dark ocean floor that he hadn’t caught sight of in a year. James’s ears were ringing, and his heart beat like a war drum as he clenched his teeth. His nails dug into the table he now gripped, managing to leave indents despite their short length.

               The criminal was a hunter now; a predator. He longed for the taste of blood in his mouth. He longed to rake his claws across skin; to hear howls and dying gasps of his prey as the light left its eyes.

               James couldn’t have tried to explain the feeling if he wanted to. Perhaps it was his eternal boredom, finally returned. Perhaps it was pure, unadulterated hatred of Carl Powers, combined with that he held for John Watson. Or, perhaps it was the horrifyingly tragic love that he still held for Mary.

               Because it wasn’t just that John had fucked his sister. Oh, no. That hadn’t been enough for the brute. Not only had John exposed Mary to the dangers of his network, of James’s true self, by telling her his true identity, but on top of that, he had to mark her; brand her like a cow by impregnation. 

               _He took her._

               Not only had he falsely loved a woman who had nothing to do with his true sister, but it was John who had to remind him that it wasn’t real. It was John who had reminded him of the fact that he, James Moriarty, had played a role in his baby sister’s death.

               It didn’t matter that Mary meant nothing to the criminal. What mattered is that it was caused by John. And now, on top of that, he had to fuck her. Now she was tainted; a monster. The thought of _John Watson’s_ child _growing_ inside of someone he had once cared so much for was enough to make him gag.

               This was why he should never have cared. How had he forgotten? Who was he to reject the one true lesson life had taught him? Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side.

               _And I won’t lose. Not this time._

               James’s movements were eerily smooth as he prepared to leave. Silver glinted and familiar clicks sounded through the otherwise silent flat as the criminal’s eyes and heart iced over.

               _Sherlock will know._

               Of course he would know. James scoffed aloud at the pathetic thought. It was time to find out where the detective’s true loyalty lay.

               As he left, a familiar object caught his gaze, just slightly too long for him to overlook it. The jagged dagger on the mantelpiece, forever embedded in the wood, ever since the criminal had tried to kill Sherlock with it.

               James removed it with seemingly no effort, and proceeded to leave the flat.


	45. Kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TW for violence and character death. And since I haven’t left you guys a note in a while, I just want you to know… this hurts me more than it hurts you.

James blinked as John opened the door hesitantly. The doctor’s brow furrowed as he studied the unusual visitor. Why the hell was the criminal here? It would be strange enough if he was with Sherlock, but this was downright bizarre.

               Something didn’t feel right.

               “…James?” John cocked his head to the side, raising an eyebrow slightly. The criminal rolled his eyes at the unspoken question.

               “Don’t look so surprised,” James drawled, his unearthly gaze forcing John to suppress a shiver, “we _did_ live together for a few months.”

               “…right,” John was still unnerved as he stepped aside, allowing the criminal room to enter, “Come in.” He may hate James, but he wasn’t about to be outright rude to the criminal. What if he was here to make amends?

               James remained in the doorway, arms on either side of the structure, “Is Mary here?”

               A red flag shot up in John’s mind, removing all thoughts of hypothetical apologies. _He likes her, but he wouldn’t want to see her around me. Why is he asking?_

“…no,” the doctor finally answered. This seemed to satisfy the criminal, and he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. It was strange, seeing someone so dangerous inside his and Mary’s home. James reminded John of a feral lion. He moved slowly, carefully, feet always steady. Any one wrong movement could turn you into his dinner. The criminal grinned at him, and the doctor noted how white his teeth were.

               “And where is the lovely Mrs. Watson?” James asked conversationally.

               John sighed, knowing the criminal didn’t really care, “What do you want, Mori—James,” the doctor corrected himself a bit too late.

               The criminal wore a strange expression that was a mixture of mock offense and amusement, “So after all this time, I’m still Jim Moriarty to you. I’m hurt, John, deeply hurt.”

               “I’m sorry to see…that,” John’s voice faltered ever so slightly when he noticed a familiar, uneven shape in James’s pocket.

               _He’s armed._

Not only was he armed, but he’d obviously done a good job of concealing it. John’s survival instincts instantly kicked into play.

               _He’s going to kill you._

John tried to look casual as he made his way a little bit closer to the kitchen.

               _Pretend to make tea. Anything to throw him off. Stay near the knives._

James noted the doctor’s feeble attempts with amusement. Did he not realize that making tea would only draw more attention to his hands, which were, now that he sensed danger, unusually steady? The criminal pretended he didn’t notice. It was almost cute, watching him try…

               _Make conversation! Stall!_ John’s mind screamed. The doctor turned around to grab a kettle.

               “So,” James beat him to the punchline, “have you thought of any baby names, yet?”

               John dropped the kettle, and black glass shattered everywhere, coating the floor in constellations of midnight stars. The doctor barely noticed the mess as he turned around.

               “How did you-?” John fought to keep his voice audible. _No. He can’t know. Oh, God, no._

James strolled casually towards the counter nearest to the doctor, leaning forward on it and resting his head on his hands, which he laced under his chin.

               “Little bird told me. Just like another little bird told Mary the truth about a certain… spider.”

               John could feel danger surrounding the criminal like electricity. It was buzzing in the air, and it kept him from taking another single step towards Moriarty.

               The doctor licked his lips, not breaking eye contact as he felt around for a knife underneath the countertop. Once he felt the familiar, smooth surface underneath his fingertips, the doctor attempted to slide it towards him, as quietly as possible, while he stalled.

               “Birds eat spiders,” John said with a steely glare. He was oddly satisfied when James’s eyes darkened with rage.

               “John,” to the doctor’s disdain, the criminal pulled John’s phone from where it sat on the countertop, and started to idly turn it in his hands as he spoke, “have you ever heard of the Goliath birdeater?”

               “…can’t say that I have,” John’s voice was hard; unmoving. Good. James liked a challenge.

               “It’s a species of tarantula,” the criminal continued, still playing with John’s phone, “found in South America. They can have a leg span of up to 28 centimeters, and their fangs have been known to even break human skin.”

               “Fascinating.”

               James smiled mysteriously, “Indeed. But, interestingly enough, they don’t live up to their name.”

               “Really?” John’s voice was flat.

               “Yup,” the criminal popped the p at the end of the word, abandoning the phone, “They rarely eat birds,” he drawled, “Their primary diet consists mainly of rodents, amphibians, lizards, and,” he met John’s gaze with a glare like daggers, “snakes.”

               John was silent; his mouth set in a hard line.

               “Do you know, John Watson,” the criminal said in a voice like velvet, leaning uncomfortably close to the doctor, “where I might find a snake?” He sneered the last word, and John realized that James was shaking with rage.

               “I’ve never liked riddles,” the doctor said calmly.

               “LEARN TO!” James roared as he, before John could react, produced a familiar looking dagger from seemingly nowhere and brought it down, straight through the doctor’s visible hand, where it rested on the countertop.

               John howled in pain, the sickening crunch of bones sending a wave of nausea through him. A shadow fell over him as James got up on the countertop, still holding the knife in an iron grip. The criminal wore a sadistic grimace as he twisted the blade, and John, barely able to draw breath from the pain, managed to use the criminal’s distraction to his advantage. The doctor tightened his other hand’s grip on the steak knife under the countertop, and with a grunt embedded the blade deep within one of James’s thighs.

               The criminal yowled, and John gasped, chest heaving, as he miraculously managed to pull the dagger out of his other hand without passing out. Spots clouded his vision, and the countertop was slick with blood, making it difficult for him to steady himself.

               James yanked the thin blade out of his leg, throwing it with a master’s precision towards the wall, where it stuck with a thud. He barely felt a single thread of pain in his rage. John was just beginning to get his bearings when the criminal’s fist collided with his face, sending him reeling and shattering his nose, sending crimson spattering across his face. James barely had time to leap down from the countertop, shoes crunching the glass of the shattered kettle, before John grabbed a larger knife from behind him, slicing the sleeve of the criminal’s shirt and drawing a small, but deep, red line across his upper arm.

               James hissed and backed John up against the opposite countertop behind him, nails digging into the doctor’s hand as he forced the knife to twist in his hand, blade nearing closer and closer to John’s throat. His eyes were black with madness and he bared his teeth in a snarl as he maintained eye contact with the doctor, the knife getting dangerously close to his exposed skin.

               Not sure where his foot would land, but not particularly caring, John sent a swift kick with all the strength he could muster in James’s direction. The criminal grunted in pain, and the doctor, throat starting to fill with blood from his nose, repeated the action two more times. After that, James finally let up enough for John to shove the Irishman away from him and against the opposite countertop. The doctor spat out a disgustingly large amount of thick, sticky scarlet before being tackled to the floor by the criminal.

               Glass dug through his clothes and into his skin like a thousand tiny knives, but, despite the pain, he was still stronger than James. John delivered a swift kick between the criminal’s legs, and James was, for a few seconds, completely immobilized with pain. The doctor only needed those few seconds to throw the criminal off of him, sending him crashing into a table. John groaned as he sat up, cringing at how deeply the glass had sunk into his skin.

               Where the doctor was better in strength, James exceeded in speed. It seemed every time John threw a punch, the criminal was already a step ahead of him.

               _I’m out of practice_ , John realized as James raked his nails down the doctor’s face, once again attempting to pin him against a wall, making the glass shards sink further into his skin. The doctor kneed the criminal in the chest, eliciting a sound midway between a cough and a gag from him as he stumbled backwards. John tackled him to the ground once more, delivering one, two, three, four good punches to the criminal’s face. In his eyes was nothing but pure madness, fury, and-

               No, it couldn’t be.

               John and James both paused, chests heaving painfully, the criminal curious as to why the doctor had halted his assault. Though John could have sworn he’d seen a glimpse, just a tiny glimpse, of fear in those dark eyes.

               They continued staring at one another, predator and prey. John tasted a dangerous amount of iron. He dimly wondered if James was as badly hurt as he was.

               “Why?” the doctor asked, shaking his head weakly at the smaller man beneath him.

               James was silent, careful to maintain complete eye contact with John as he slowly moved his hand.

               “Because you took them.”

               A loud shot rang out through the room. John barely had time to wonder what it was before realization, along with excruciating pain, hit him.

               The criminal easily shoved the doctor off of him, rolling him onto his back and straddling him, tossing the gun aside in the process.

               “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to do that,” James said with relish, gazing down at the dying man underneath him with anger still not completely sated, “They’re mine, not yours.”

               John coughed, “Sherlock.”

               The criminal nodded soberly, “Right, old Sherlock.”

               “Mary,” the doctor continued weakly.

               Madness flooded James’s eyes, “Not anymore,” he glared down at John in arrogance.

               “The baby,” John coughed again, blackness clouding the edges of his vision, “Please, James. The baby…mercy…”

               The criminal’s eyes were empty, “The world doesn’t show mercy, John Watson,” he kept eye contact, “And neither do I.” With that, the doctor closed his eyes as he felt James’s weight get off of him, and pain fade to nothingness as he descended into darkness.


	46. Torture

Violin notes drifted through the air as James ascended the stairs.

               _One._

_Two._

_Three._

A sudden creak made James freeze, and he felt his limbs turn to stone as the music momentarily stopped.

               Why was he stopping? The criminal reminded himself that, in Sherlock’s eyes, he was completely innocent.

               That obviously was going to change, soon. James’s bones ached and his wounds stung as his now resumed movement stretched his skin, caked with dried blood. The criminal’s shadow stretched behind him as he took the steps slowly, feeling that this would, most likely, be one of the last times he ascended them. It followed him like a curse; a reminder of what he was.

               James was a monster. He always had been. He had forgotten, for a time, but now he remembered what he was; what he was destined to be.

               He had always been cursed with a certain excellence; he and Sherlock both were forever isolated. They were lions among sheep, trapped within a life that they were infinitely too intelligent for.

               It all made James very bored, and yet, there was still a trace of something else he was feeling. Something heavy and dark. The criminal vaguely felt as though he was sinking to the bottom of the ocean; dark water pressing down on him more and more until he was pinned to the ocean floor.

               He refused to admit it was sadness. But what else could it be?

               James knew that Sherlock wasn’t stupid. And if he wasn’t stupid, he was going to know instantly who had killed John. The criminal had a horrible, crushing hunch that the detective wasn’t going to want him after he knew. As much as James wanted the opposite option, it was…highly unlikely.

               _I’ve got to go back to the ordinary people…_

No more companionship. No more smiling at Sherlock. No more kissing Sherlock. Nothing would ever be as interesting as this had been…

               James felt a stab of regret. He shouldn’t have killed John. _Why_ had he done it? He was going to lose Sherlock, now.

               _John deserved it._

               Empty. He felt empty. The criminal had been backed into a corner, and he had clawed his way out. Now he had to pay the price.

               This wasn’t going to be a living hell. This was purgatory. And that was so, so much worse.

               Slowly, he pushed open the door to the flat. Sherlock kept playing, and James watched from the doorway. He took note of everything, burning it to memory. The way his muscles moved, how he expertly maneuvered the instrument… the criminal even memorized what he could of the song.

               He would probably end up deleting it, but it was a good gesture, was it not? He wanted to appreciate Sherlock in all of his glory while he could.

               Finally, the detective finished, and James smiled sadly from the doorway, taking a few more steps towards his lover and applauding quietly. Sherlock smirked at him slightly before setting his violin down.

               “How was shopping?” James asked. His voice had a strange tone to it, already betraying to Sherlock that something was wrong.

               The detective gave him a strange look before answering, deductions apparently not adding up, “Fine. Are you alright?” Sherlock frowned at him with concern. James every once in a while got battered up slightly on a job, despite not usually getting his hands dirty. This, however, was more injuries than he usually sustained. The criminal hadn’t even tried to hide how torn his clothes were. Whether he had or hadn’t, Sherlock would have managed to deduce his guilt.

               James nodded slightly, “I’m fine, Sherlock,” his voice was weak with a strange quietness. It was the sort of thing the detective had heard from the dying.

               What was wrong with James?

               Sherlock cocked his head to the side with concern, and the criminal without warning crossed the room and pressed their lips together.

               James didn’t cry. In fact, he didn’t even feel an urge to cry. He didn’t feel a want to be closer to Sherlock; he didn’t feel a need to stare the detective in the eyes for hours; he didn’t… feel.

               He was a dead man walking.

               Sherlock, meanwhile, was frantic.

               _Lack of passion in kiss._

_Hands are weak._

_Lips not pressed as hard as usual._

_Weakness in voice._

_He’s sad. No. Not sad. Desolate._

_Something is wrong. Very, very wrong._

               James broke the kiss. Suddenly, he didn’t want to memorize anything about Sherlock. Not the taste of his lips nor the softness of his skin. Kissing seemed pointless; a waste of time; boring.

               _Everything is boring._

The criminal didn’t bother meeting Sherlock’s eyes when the detective’s phone rang. Sherlock’s stomach dropped when he heard Lestrade’s voice on the other end.

               _“Something’s happened.”_

The detective slowly lowered the phone from his ear after he hung up. He and James stared at one another for a moment.

               Sherlock had a deep, dark, horrifying suspicion, but his mind wasn’t able to make sensible deductions at the moment. His heart was hammering like mad because of the address he had been given.

               “Something’s happened,” the detective said monotonously.

               “I know,” James carefully enunciated. He looked strangely threatening to Sherlock at the moment.

               “…why?”

               James didn’t answer, and the detective ran out of the flat in frustration, not having the patience or the time to play games at the moment. He grabbed his coat on the way out, and the criminal watched him catch a cab from the window.

               Oxygen didn’t seem to be cooperating with James’s lungs at the moment. The criminal drew several quick, labored breaths before grabbing a stray glass off a table and throwing it at the wall with an animalistic scream.


	47. Scream

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering against his chest as he ran a race he knew he had already lost.

               _No. He could be alright. He could still be fine…_

The detective couldn’t lie to himself, though. Lestrade’s tone of voice, coupled with James’s strange manner and mysterious injuries all led to one unspeakable conclusion.

               _John. Something’s happened to John. No, no, no, no._

As Sherlock stepped out into the icy night air, his mind raced to calculate the quickest method of transportation. The tube was obviously out- the distance wasn’t long enough to warrant its use and it would only eat up more time. He wanted desperately to simply run, to feel like he was doing something, but a taxi was logically the way to go. The detective’s shout to a passing cab ( _empty, thank God_ ) was so loud and desperate that a couple walking together on the opposite pavement was startled; heads snapping in his direction with widened eyes.

               The detective recited the address to the driver so quickly that his words slurred together. When the man in front asked him apathetically to repeat it, Sherlock could have throttled him. The cabbie seemed less uncaring after that, nervously glancing into the backseat periodically. The detective imagined he looked a mess, though he didn’t particularly care. His hair was even wilder than usual, curls spouting out erratically in every direction, and he struggled unsuccessfully to calm his breathing.

               _You know James did something. He did something and John is hurt._

Sherlock silenced his deductions and instead directed some of his energy towards drumming his fingers, tapping his feet, or anything else that would make him feel like something was getting done.

               _No text from James on storming out. Now you know there must be-_

_NO!_

The detective refused to believe anything until he got there. Despite it going completely against his instincts, he had to have _some_ hope. He couldn’t believe anything until there was proof. Solid proof was what he needed.

               “You alright there, mate?” an unsure voice interrupted his breakdown.

               For whatever reason, Sherlock suddenly could barely keep himself from crying. He felt a familiar lump in his throat and blinked his eyes a few times to stop the burn of tears beginning to surface. He hated this cab. He hated _this_. Why couldn’t things have stayed the way they were?

               The beginnings of his relationship with James seemed like they had taken place in another life. This was a nightmare. A living nightmare. And he hadn’t even gotten to the worst part yet.

               _I’ll wake up. This is a dream. I’ll wake up next to James and he’ll look at me with his brown eyes and I’ll smirk and everything will be normal…_

But that wasn’t going to happen. He was living a nightmare now, and there would be no faked deaths this time.

               _No one is dead yet,_ he reminded himself, _John is a soldier. He’s strong. This is probably just a coincidence._

_The universe is rarely so lazy._

Realizing that he still had yet to respond to the cabbie’s question, Sherlock tried to conceal the shakiness of the deep breath he took before finally speaking.

               “Fine, thank you,” the detective’s voice started out sharp, but cracked and fell apart at the end of his statement. Angry at this, he snapped at the driver, “And could you drive any faster? There aren’t even any cars on the road.”

               “This is the fastest I can go, sir-”

               “Well GO. FASTER!” Sherlock roared, “Goddammit, just drive! There are lives on the line and you’re worrying about _speed limit_?” It was cruel and unfair; the man was just doing his job, but Sherlock at that point really couldn’t care less. All that mattered was that he could feel John’s life draining away with each second that passed; an hourglass that was doomed to run out of sand any moment now…

               The detective decided he had sat still for long enough.

               “Stop the cab!” he commanded, startling the driver, who swerved dangerously towards a mercifully empty curb and jolted the car to a stop. Sherlock was vaguely pleased with the increased performance. The detective was out of the cab in less than three seconds and was shocked to find that his hands were vibrating with tremors as he attempted to free a few pounds from his wallet. He couldn’t even concentrate enough to count out the money, and with a frustrated hiss he shoved a pile of who-knows-how-many pounds into the concerned looking driver’s face. Sherlock was so anxious to move that the cabbie barely heard his hasty ‘Keep the change!’ yelled over his shoulder as he took off.

               The detective had never run that fast before in his life. No matter how long his strides, however, they were never enough. He felt like he was in a nightmare; one where your legs are too heavy to move, no matter how desperate you are. The only difference was that this time, it was real. The cold air burned Sherlock’s lungs and his lips and throat were parched, but he didn’t care. He ran as though through fire, and the burning in his legs only further suggested that point. The detective’s breath left him in clouds of smoke, and in his open mouth he tasted future rain in the air. The slight humidity made his hair even more out of control than before, and he looked and felt like a madman as he flew across the streets.

               When Sherlock finally saw the door he was looking for, he nearly collapsed. Whether it was from exhaustion, or from relief, or merely force of motion, he didn’t know. The police cars around him, the flashing lights, they meant nothing. The detective heard nothing as he forced his way through the crowd, shoving Sally Donovan out of his way without a second thought as he threw the door open and raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

               _He’s fine._

_Everything will be fine._

_This is John; nothing has happened._

_He’ll probably be chatting with Lestrade when you get up there. Probably give you that dumb grin and-_

The detective’s thoughts fell silent as he threw open the door to the flat.

               The place was a mess. Shattered glass, overturned tables, and blood seemed to cover most of the floor. What made Sherlock’s heart stop, however, what made all of the blood in his veins run cold, was the body Lestrade and two other officers stood over.

               The detective stared, suddenly unable to move his feet. For a brief, terrifying moment, he was completely unable to draw breath; suffocated by the weight of the impossible, cold truth, lying on the ground in front of him.

               “John,” his voice was barely a whimper, and yet the group standing over the dead doctor acted as though a bomb had been dropped. All eyes fell on Sherlock, but he himself only wanted to return one gaze.

               The one gaze he couldn’t have. The one he could never see again.

               “JOHN!” the detective screamed for his dead friend, and Lestrade didn’t think he’d ever heard such a terrible noise. It was so animal, so hopeless, so horrifically _human_ that he couldn’t believe it had come from Sherlock. Greg wished more than anything, in that moment, that the detective hadn’t had to discover humanity in this worst of ways.

               Though perhaps humanity was what had gotten them all into this in the first place.

               “Sherlock, you shouldn’t—he’s gone…” Lestrade was struggling, and failing, to keep a hysterical Sherlock from seeing John.

               “No, please…” the detective begged, “he’s my friend…” Greg didn’t have the strength after that to continue his restraint.

               Sherlock fell to his knees at John’s side, a sob finally tearing its way out of him.

               _Pale face._

_Completely limp._

_Shotgun wound._

_Dried blood. So much blood…_

_My friend. My best friend…_

_Dead._

“God, no,” he shook his head, “Please, God, let him live…”

               “Sherlock,” the detective felt a hand on his shoulder, “We can’t contaminate the crime scene. We have a theory who did it, we just needed to-”

               Sherlock slowly stood up, not bothering to hide his sorrow as he turned around to face Lestrade. His eyes were so empty as they stared into Greg’s that the silver haired man felt his words slowly dissipate into silence, never to leave his throat as he watched the broken man in front of him.

               “I know who did it,” the detective said emotionlessly, needlessly. They all knew who was to blame. Was there really any doubt?

               Lestrade could barely make himself look at Sherlock. It was like he was watching the detective die in front of him; as though when John had died, he had taken Sherlock with him.

               “Sherlock-” Greg started, but the detective pushed past him. Lestrade knew he should follow him, tell him to come back and let them help him, but if he was completely honest with himself, the silver haired man felt weighted to the floor. John was dead, Sherlock was never going to be the same, and the murderer was a man the detective had thought he was in love with for the past year. A man who was almost impossible to catch.

               Greg rubbed a hand on his face, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep and escape the nightmare that was currently his world.

<br />

               The night air bit into Sherlock’s skin, but he didn’t care. He relished the darkness. He _loved_ being able to hide. Maybe if he stayed in the shadows long enough, he would become one of them. That _was_ what he was now, was it not? A monster, a creature of the night. No, that was too romantic. He wasn’t the sort of monster women swooned for, the type of monster who wore expensive cologne and slept on silk sheets.

               No, he was a repulsive thing. A horrific experiment gone wrong. A warped, twisted, semi-human creature. He was pestilence, he was humiliation, he was death’s bidder. He was like James now.

               _He had done this._

God, how had he ever been so stupid as to trust James? He, in his selfishness, had ignored _everything_ John had said. Every warning, every gentle word of concern had been discarded in favor of more teeth marks, more branding on his neck from the criminal. Sherlock had put his own happiness over John’s safety and it had cost the doctor his life.

               It was horrifically _unfair_ to John, and that made it all the worse.

               It hadn’t just been John, though. Sherlock had endangered everyone. Everyone around him had been a possible target, exposed to a serial killer that the detective had convinced himself loved him.

               _“I…love you.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you, too.”_

Sherlock shook his head. Every time James had said those words had been another nudge to the chair under John’s feet. It had only been a matter of time before it toppled over and the rope around the doctor’s neck went taut.

               Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, and it was clear to Sherlock that he had lost. Not just for himself, but for John as well. He should never have cared for John. He should never have cared for anyone. All it did was hurt. Oh, _God,_ did it hurt. He choked back a sudden sob, realizing that this was probably how John had felt, watching Sherlock jump off St. Bart’s.

               The detective felt a sudden wave of nausea at the things he had done with James—no… Moriarty, run though his mind. He had helped _kill_ people. He had evoked fear in others like it was some sort of sick, twisted game. He had let that monster touch him in ways that once made his pulse jump, and now made him want to gag.

               How could James have _done_ this?

               _I loved him. I loved him so much…_

And that was the problem. Had James really loved him? It appeared so, but Sherlock now realized that love in fact had not been a good thing in this situation. Love was poison, and there was no antidote for affection this potent. Because what was truly sickening, what made the detective want to take a gun to his mouth, was the fact that he would do anything to go back to the way things had been. He wanted to see James laugh, and John roll his eyes at their giddiness, and it was disgusting. He would have traded all of his tomorrows for just one yesterday, and it was for that ignorance, for his own lust for naivety, that John Watson was dead.


	48. Shoot

James listened to the muffled sounds of London in the darkened flat, breathing in the dusty smell of 221B that he wasn’t sure he’d ever taste again. It had to be about 1AM by now. Sherlock would be home very soon.

               It had been fun. Definitely, it had been fun. He didn’t regret his relationship with the detective. The criminal felt, if anything, that he had learned more about himself and his own weaknesses from the whole thing.

               For God’s sake, he’d let Sherlock _tickle_ him. And the detective had bought into the whole thing completely. Both of them, possibly the two coldest people on the planet, had fallen in love. It was almost poetic, in a way.

               The criminal’s heart ached, feeling like it was being stepped on; like it was being stepped on by his own Italian shoes, but he pushed those thoughts aside.

               _I was a fool,_ he thought with disgust. How could he have ever thought that this would work out? He was James Moriarty. He didn’t _do_ things like this. Perhaps it was for the best.

               It wasn’t that he felt remorse over being alone. He truly didn’t mind. Or, he wouldn’t have minded, if Sherlock hadn’t come along.

               The criminal wished he had never been made aware of the fantastic distraction that was Sherlock Holmes. He had made life like a dream, and now James could feel himself waking up.

               That was the thing with dreams. You always woke up, one way or another.

               James sighed, dark eyes studying the flat, starting to burn with tears as he remembered the first dream Sherlock had appeared in. The angel detective had been a puzzle. A beautiful puzzle that brought light, and stimulation, and care like he had never before-

               _No. Not this. Not again._

Who the hell was he kidding? He loved Sherlock. He didn’t want it to end. But Sherlock was rational. Sherlock was an angel. Sherlock was too good for him.

               Everything was gone. Everything. There would be no more companionship. He’d have to go back to playing with ordinary people for the rest of his life…

               James wasn’t sure he even wanted a life without Sherlock.

               _Pathetic._

The criminal took a deep, shaky breath, swallowing the lump in his throat.

               _Control._

Arranging his face into a flawless mask that not even the consulting detective could see through, James nostalgically studied the items on the mantelpiece, including his least favorite dagger, listening to Sherlock’s heavy, rapid footfalls on the stairs leading up to the flat and the vigorous turn of the doorknob.

               All was quiet for a moment, and James felt the detective’s sharp gaze like a dagger in his back.

               The criminal didn’t even need to see Sherlock to know what he looked like. His breaths held an unspoken air of madness. James could feel it in the air like electricity. This was a man who had lost everything. Well, he’d lost John, but what did that say? John _had_ been his everything, apparently. James was disposable.

               _He still loves John._

Good. It would make this much easier.

               The criminal was about to turn around when he heard a distinctive click, making his eyes darken. He spun on his heel slowly, feeling a strange and sudden anger at the detective.

               When his eyes fell upon Sherlock, James felt almost embarrassed for him. His hair was a mess, there were dark shadows under his eyes, and his skin was a sickly sort of pale, rather than its usual clean porcelain. The detective’s chest was heaving, and his eyes were filled with fire—a terrifying and beautiful mixture of fury, despair, and insanity. In his right hand he held a simple revolver, shaking like a leaf as he pointed it at James. The criminal had himself together, could the detective not do him the same courtesy? Both of their worlds would be destroyed tonight; the least they could do was be civilized about it.

               _Fuck civilized. I’m going to need to spill blood after this is over,_ a quiet voice snarled from a darker corner of James’s mind.

               “How’s Johnny?” the criminal asked in a measured voice. His eyes were empty, and Sherlock found himself unable to fathom how he had once believed he loved this man.

               “ _Shut. Up.”_ The words were dangerously quiet as they left the detective in a hiss. Remorse for John was quickly morphing into fury. Sherlock hated James. He hated everything about him. He was nothing more than a pathetic, lying, jealous—

               “What the Hell are you doing with that?” the criminal asked, glancing at the revolver and interrupting his mental tirade. He said it as though they were discussing the _weather_ …

               Sherlock’s nostrils flared, his eyes never leaving James. What _was_ he doing? Did it really _matter?_

               “…You’re going to pay,” he said slowly, “for what you did.”

               James scoffed quietly, “Remember the last time you tried to make me pay, Sherlock?” he paused, “You ended up kissing me.”

               Sherlock’s cheeks flushed with anger, “That means nothing, now.” He tried unsuccessfully to steady his shaking, outstretched hand.

               “Really?” James raised his eyebrows, “Glad we’ve cleared that up,” he said sarcastically. _Control, control, control._

“ _Why?”_ Sherlock asked, voice barely audible. His face was contorted into such an expression of pain that James had to remind himself that he couldn’t comfort the detective.

               “Because, Sherlock,” James casually strolled a pace to his right, nearer to the door, and the gun followed him, “he was in the way.”

               “In the way?” the detective’s voice rose slightly, hysterically, “In the way? I’m in _your_ way, now, Jim! Are you going to kill me, too?”

               “I dunno, Sherlock,” the criminal replied emotionlessly, “You’re the one with the gun.”

               “You think you’re so _clever_ ,” Sherlock spat through gritted teeth, “You’re worthless. You pretend to be above it all, but you’re not. You’re a filthy, worthless criminal. A snake in the grass. You’re desperate, Moriarty. You’re weak. You just pretend that-”

               “Does it make you feel good to say that?” Jim interrupted, “Funny thing you should mention that, Sherlock. The thing about thinking I’m clever,” he chuckled coldly, “Funny that you target that at _me._ ”

               “Yes, everything’s _so_ funny, to you-”

               “Oh, but it is!” Moriarty said, completely humorless, “In fact, Sherlock, what I find the funniest is the fact that you’re projecting everything you think about yourself on _me_ ,” his voice rose slightly at the last word.

               Sherlock was silent, unable to think of a response and instead settling for glaring at Jim.     

               “Don’t look so offended,” Jim chastised, “You know it to be true.”

               “I’m nothing like you,” Sherlock said quietly.

               “Ha!” Jim laughed coldly, “Darling, did you _not_ assist me in the murders of innocents? Did you _not_ have consensual sex at a crime scene? Did you _not_ enjoy every last minute of it? Honey, you’re in denial. At least I _admit_ to being a bad egg.”

               “Oh, don’t act like such a martyr,” Sherlock said, disgusted, “That’s the thing with you, Jim. You always jump at the chance to show yourself as a victim. You pretend to love what you are but you _love_ being pitied. That’s the difference between you and I. I don’t want pity in the slightest. You want it from anyone who will give it to you.”

               The detective was rather alarmed at the sudden transformation in the criminal’s facial expression. ‘Ice’ seemed too warm a word to describe it.

               “Alright, Holmes,” James said dangerously quietly, “You don’t want pity? Good. I’m not a merciful man, as you well know.”

               Sherlock breathed shakily. His arm ached from holding the revolver extended for so long.

               “If I was a merciful man,” Jim continued, taking another step towards the door, studying his feet as he walked, “I would tell you right now that I had never cared. That you meant nothing to me. That Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty had never truly been in love, nor would they ever be. I would tell you that this had all been a game; a ploy.”

               Sherlock didn’t like where this is going, “Stop,” he muttered, half unconscious of what he was saying.

               “But since we’re not being kind here,” James brought his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s, not even enjoying their unsure expression that much, “I won’t tell you that.”

               “Stop it,” the detective pleaded, a bit louder. James raised his eyebrows slightly and the room fell silent. Sherlock was sure that the criminal could hear his heartbeat. He wondered if James’s was the same as his. They merely stood there, staring at one another, for several seconds. The criminal’s stomach twisted in dismay at the slight rustling of fabric, coming from Sherlock’s shaking, still extended arm.

               “I loved you, Sherlock.”

               The words fell like feathers. They were simultaneously the sweetest and the cruelest sound the detective had ever heard.

               James licked his lips, hesitating as he tried to pull himself together.

               “I loved you,” he continued, praying to some unknown deity that Sherlock couldn’t hear the tremor in his voice, “and I still do. I love you-”

               “Stop it, STOP IT NOW!” the detective could feel himself coming apart at the seams, but he didn’t care anymore. Anything to stop James talking. Anything to stop him saying these things.

               “And I did this,” James continued, unable to stop a few tears from escaping, “I did this because I love you…. Is that so wrong, Sherlock?” the criminal’s voice began to rise slightly with anger, “To—to do something because you love someone? I just wanted you to love me! Is that TOO MUCH TO ASK?”

               _Façade over,_ James mentally cursed, _why bother, now?_

               “I,” Sherlock said slowly, chest heaving, “do _not_ love you.”

               A glint of madness surfaced in Jim’s eyes, “You loved _him_?”

               The detective nodded, “I never loved you,” he said coldly, “like I loved him. And I never will.”

               “ _Liar,_ ” Moriarty snarled.

               Sherlock knew it was a lie. He knew it was an obvious lie. But that wasn’t what angered Jim. No, what angered him, and what the detective intended to anger him with, was the fact that he preferred this lie—this horrible, ridiculous lie, to the truth.

               “Perhaps,” Sherlock said coldly.

               Rage was spreading in Jim’s eyes like wildfire, “He squealed like a pig,” the criminal spat, “I gutted him like a fish. He hated you.”

               “Shut up.”

               “You know what his last word was?” Moriarty was feeding off of Sherlock’s hurt, now. Each wound he inflicted on the detective was more fuel for him to keep going. _Good. Forget._ “Mercy.”

               The familiar, loud noise of a shot filled the room, and it took a few seconds for Jim to realize that Sherlock had fired. Oh, right, at him. James waited for the pain to start. If he was going to die, he supposed there was no better way to go than at the detective’s hand. But why didn’t he feel pain?

               The criminal slowly turned his head to the side, eyes immediately meeting a small hole in the wall.

               _He missed_.

               _Did he mean to miss?_

James met Sherlock’s eyes again, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen a more broken shell of a man. The detective’s hand wasn’t trembling anymore so much as rapidly moving up and down vertically.

               “Leave,” Sherlock begged, “And don’t _ever_ come back.”

               Jim stared, mind going blank.

               “This is your last chance, Sherly,” he said quietly, “The final act. Curtain falls after I walk out this door.”

               “I said,” Sherlock steadied his voice slightly, “ _Get out_.”

               James found himself briefly wondering if he would even be capable of following the order, but soon enough the criminal began the four paces to the door, shoulders squared and expression blank. His heart beat thrummed in his ears, and James found himself realizing, as the door shut behind him and he left 221B, that there would never again be another distraction like Sherlock Holmes.


	49. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character death.

Lestrade stared at the blonde, feeling hopelessness weighing in his stomach like a rock.

               “What do you mean I can’t see him?” Mary’s voice was slowly descending into hysteria, and her eyes glistened with tears she was too desperate to shed, “Why can I not see my _dead husband_?” A choked sob escaped her after the last words.

               “Mary, I-” Greg said softly, “I’m not sure—I’m not sure you’d want to see.”

               The two were standing at the crime scene and fighting over the body now loaded onto the white gurney, covered with a sheet. It was about 3 a.m, and Mary had only just managed to get past the police. Into her own _damn flat._

               “…please,” she begged, “I need to.” The blonde would have expected this to feel like a nightmare, but it was the opposite. She was waking up from a dream.

               _I should have stayed away._

She was a killer. A cold blooded killer. And it had finally caught up to her. Mary was starting to feel like John had just been her imagination. An imaginary friend invented to accompany her own lonely existence.

               _Why_ hadn’t she listened to John? _Why_ hadn’t she stayed away from James? Had he known all this time; been trying to trip her up? He’d seemed genuinely surprised when he’d found out her identity, and a good deal colder. Mary would be lying if she said she hadn’t felt the same way.

               He had been so kind… had that all been make believe? Was it even humanly possible to fake such a thing?

               _“He’s a psychopath, Mary,”_ John’s words of concern dimly echoed in her mind.

               She truly had thought that James and she had had something… special. He had been well on his way to being her closest friend. There had been something about him that lit up the room she was in. He was… he was like a brother. Or he had been. Now she wanted to vomit at the thought of getting coffee with such a monster, as she so often had. As soon as he’d known who she was, he’d…changed. The light had gone out. He hadn’t even seemed like a person, anymore. More like a machine. All that time, he had been the man who, for years, had given her orders from behind a screen on who to kill next. Why the _Hell_ was she surprised that he was suddenly cold?

               Mary choked back another sob. And now John was gone. And she was pregnant. How on Earth was she supposed to raise a _child_?

               And what was the likelihood of James coming for her next?

               Turning her eyes back to Greg, he finally acknowledged her request with a weak nod, and led her over to the gurney, gingerly removing the sheet.

               He was still in his jumper. The doctor was covered in cuts and bruises, but a distinct paleness was already spreading over his form.

               He was so…still.

               Mary felt an overwhelming wave of despair wash over her, and this time, she allowed it to consume her. At the moment, had someone asked her her name, she wasn’t sure that she would be able to recite it.

               _John._

_Oh, God, John…_

He had been a soldier. How did a rat like Moriarty manage to kill a lion like John? This had been so underhand, so twisted, so unexpected; she didn’t even feel like it was her husband lying next to her. John wouldn’t have died like this. He would have died saving lives. He would have died a hero. Not in desperation to save himself. John was _more_ than that. The broken glass on the floor wasn’t real. The John next to her wasn’t real. _This_ couldn’t be real, could it?

               Mary buried her face in Lestrade’s chest, and he lightly wrapped his arms around her, eyes blank. She sobbed, but barely any tears escaped her eyes at all. Greg struggled to think of something to say, but what did one say in a situation such as this? What comfort could he offer? There wasn’t much he _could_ say, and even what he could would cheapen the situation. And John didn’t deserve that. John didn’t deserve any of this. A large part of him refused to believe that in a few days, the soldier would be six feet underground.

               _It’s Sherlock all over again._

Except this time, it was real.

               He started to sigh, but the action was interrupted by a shattering of glass, making him jump, breath caught in his throat. All heads turned towards the now shattered window he and Mary stood by, and an apprehensive silence filled the room.

               _Why would the window just shatter? Unless…_

_Oh, God, no._

Just as the reality of what had happened dawned on Greg, he felt Mary go limp in his arms. Her head fell back slightly as Lestrade struggled to get a good grip on her, revealing a gaping hole of scarlet in her forehead. Greg lowered her to the ground as gently as he could, beginning to realize that there was a good deal of blood covering him, as well.

               There was a collective gasp and the detective inspector finally let go of the breath he had been holding, inhaling again rapidly and barely feeling relief in his lungs as he roared, “Get away from the windows! Help her!”

               As Mary Watson was loaded onto a gurney next to her husband’s, Greg knew it was too late. He didn’t need Sherlock to deduce that much.

               _Eyes already closed._

_Professional shot._

_The Watsons are dead._

Lestrade couldn’t stop tears forming in his eyes as the ambulance left.

<br />

               _Take care of Mary Watson. –JM_

_Yes, boss. –SM_

Jim’s hands shook as he typed the words. He chose them with the utmost care. Mary was to be taken care of. Not taken out like trash.

               It was too _easy_. It was all too easy. So boring. God, everything was boring.

               _You made me do this,_ Jim thought in despair, _I had to do this._

The criminal stood in an abandoned building several miles north of London. It remained absent from most maps, he knew. And since he was so far outside the city, they would be less likely to look for him here.

               Not that he particularly cared, at this point. Avoiding the police was more a matter of avoiding Sher-

               _No._

               Jim ran a hand over his face as he leaned up against one of the crumbling brick walls, not caring that he was getting dust and plaster all over his clothes. His father’s voice echoed in his mind, sending a wave of rage over him. He choked back a sob with a grimace, feeling nothing but disgust. Disgust at himself. Disgust at John. Disgust at Sherlock. Disgust at what Mary had become.

               _“WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?” his father screamed, “She’s fucking dead, you little brat! That’s what people do!”_

_James had stared at the corpse in a mixture of morbid, naïve fascination, and horror. He felt like he was facing a monster. His father looked more like a gorilla than his parent. Although he wasn’t sure gorillas got this angry._

_His mouth had barely begun to form the one word he needed, that one syllable, when his father interrupted him again._

_“WHY? IS THAT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO ASK ME?”_

_James shook his head slowly, wide eyed._

_His father went very quiet suddenly, and James was sure that, for a moment, his heart stopped, “I had to do this. She made me do this. Do you understand?”_

_James shook his head. What had Mary done? He didn’t understand… Maybe it was a grown up thing. Maybe he’d understand when he was older. His father had said that about a lot of things…_

Jim stuffed a fist into his mouth, trying desperately to quiet the sobs now shaking his body like a leaf. He understood. Oh, yes, he understood now. He knew why his father had killed Mary.

               He was sick. He had been sick. Like Jim. And now Jim had done the exact same thing as his father. Because it all made sense. It made _sense_ why Mary had needed to die. And that was why the criminal felt despair wrapping its cold hands around his throat, throttling him as his father had his baby sister.

               _I am him._

All this time. All this time he’d thought he was special. He wasn’t special. He was a twisted thing. He didn’t belong in this world of ordinary people. But were the ordinary people so bad? Had his sister been ordinary? Mary Watson had been turned ordinary by John. Was that how it had been with his baby sister? But it had felt so wrong… Jim was beginning to feel like he didn’t know what thoughts he could trust anymore.

               And _Sherlock…_

               No. No. He wouldn’t… he _couldn’t_ think about Sherlock.

               Oh, God, he loved Sherlock. He wanted nothing more than to run back to the detective. To let Sherlock wrap him in his arms and tell him it was all fine. To stroke his hair as he buried his face in that thin chest the detective had and… and…

               _Job complete. –SM_

Jim lost it then. He had cried before. But never, never in his life had he ever cried like that. This wasn’t pillow tears. This wasn’t how he had cried after his sister had died. No, this was desolation. There was no word to describe it. He sank to the ground, fist still in his mouth, doing nothing to help stifle his sobs. There were a few moments he felt like he was dying—the weight in his chest would become overwhelming and he would have to struggle to get enough oxygen. He didn’t even feel disgusted with himself. He just felt alone.

               _I care. I care about Sherlock. I care about Mary._

_Can’t pretend. And I can’t have them back. I can never, never have them back._

_Sherlock…Oh, God, Sherlock…_

               The one person who had understood him. The one person on Earth like him. The one person he had ever loved more than anyone else on this damned, godforsaken planet. And Jim could never have him back.

               Finally managing to clear his vision enough to send a text, Jim’s fingers were still shaking so hard that he barely could press the correct keys.

               _Well done. Payment will arrive soon. –JM_

Never again. Never again. Chemical defect, his arse. Jim wanted to love. He just had no one left to give it to.

               The criminal had no idea how long he remained there, but when he got up, he felt like a ghost, walking among men.


	50. Join

***Three months later***

               James bit his lip, trying to calm the swarm of thoughts moving through his mind.

               He wondered if this was what it was like to go mad. The criminal was seeing Sherlock everywhere—be it his name in print or his face in a crowd. Unfortunately, none of these instances were legitimate; the detective seemed to be keeping a distinctly low profile as of late. Most of the time he was able to reign in his more emotional thoughts, but there was always a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind, whispering the things that he needed to hear the least right now.

               The nights were the worst. James didn’t keep a normal sleep schedule, but when he _did_ get a chance to have an ordinary night’s sleep he found himself missing the detective far more than usual. The dreams certainly weren’t helping. Even in his subconscious, the criminal pined for Sherlock.

               The detective clearly didn’t plan on coming after him. Perhaps that was for the best. James could already feel himself falling back into his old patterns from before he met Sherlock. He could feel himself icing over, and while he knew it was beneficial for success, he wasn’t sure he even _wanted_ success anymore.

               James wished that he could have forgotten Sherlock. He wished that his efforts in suppressing his emotions had been successful. They certainly weren’t ineffective—the criminal could feel his empathy draining with each day that went by, but there was still that small part of him that wanted Sherlock back.

               Perhaps that small part wasn’t as easily ignored as the criminal had previously thought. Perhaps he had cared about Sherlock more than he had thought.

               James had hoped that now that they were apart, he would be able to look at this objectively. He had hoped that he’d see a flaw; a crack in his well-built armor. Something easily fixed. But now he was beginning to realize the truth.

               The criminal would never see his relationship with Sherlock as a flaw. He’d been in _love_ with the detective. It hadn’t just been spur of the moment grief or passion—he had legitimately _loved_ Sherlock. Perhaps even more than he’d loved Mary.

               He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but James couldn’t help himself. He just needed closure. He needed to know for sure; needed one last confirmation that Sherlock truly didn’t want him. Maybe then he could get some sleep.

               James’s heart raced as he picked up his phone, lounging inside one of his many flats scattered throughout London. He paused, debating what to say. The criminal didn’t want to sound clingy—not like Sherlock’s response mattered. But then again, both of those things would be lies so obvious that a monkey could see through them. It was 12 a.m. and Sherlock’s response mattered more than the sun and moon to James. He _was_ being clingy.

               The criminal sighed before throwing caution to the wind and typing.

               _Thinking of you. –JM_

James played with a pocketknife as he waited for a response.

               _Bored, bored, bored…_

<br />

               Sherlock winced at the buzzing of his phone, reluctantly looking up from his experiment. He could ignore it, but what was the risk of Moriarty blowing something up if he did?

               With eyes as cold as his heart felt, he read over the message from the one person who would be texting him at this hour.

               _Thinking of you. –JM_

The detective mentally scoffed in disgust. Was this the best Jim could do? It was almost pathetic. So the criminal killed his best friend, plus his wife and unborn child, and expects to get off the hook with pretty words a 13 year old girl could think up? Ridiculous.

               Sherlock turned his phone off and, setting it back on the counter with slightly more force than was necessary, went back to his microscope.

<br />

***1 month later***

 

               _Sherlock, we need to talk. –JM_

_I know you’re reading these. –JM_

_Don’t be a child. Stop hiding. –JM_

_Sherlock, we both miss each other. –JM_

_Darling, my patience is wearing thin. I’m almost boooredd with youuu. –JM_

               Sherlock read over the texts a fifth time. He had been ignoring them up until this point, but they were beginning to weigh on his mind to the point where they interfered with his ability to work cases.

               He considered texting back merely to shut Jim up. The criminal needed to know that no was his answer. Just looking at those two initials, ‘JM’, was enough to make the detective’s blood boil with rage. It made his gut twist with nausea; made him feel lightheaded as he always had when Jim had kissed him…

               Fantastic. He still had feelings for the criminal. As twisted as it was, he actually enjoyed reading Jim’s desperation just as much as he hated it. He loathed the criminal more than possibly anyone else in the world, and yet he also loved him just as much. How did that work?

               Sherlock needed to speak to him. Just once more. Once more so that he could confirm what he already knew. He knew Jim was bad news. He just needed….needed more data.

               The detective, against his better (more suppressed) judgment, typed out a quick message and didn’t think once more before hitting send.

               _You’re desperate. –SH_

It was about two minutes before he got a reply. Jim had waited. All this time he had been waiting. Sherlock didn’t find the idea particularly appealing.

               _Are you surprised? –JM_

Surprised? No. More disappointed than surprised. Sherlock hated to admit it, but even the ruthless, psychopathic criminal mastermind was more inviting than broken Moriarty.

               _Disappointed. –SH_

_Seems to be a recurring theme of the past few months, don’t you think? –JM_

_Ah, yes. I apologize for keeping you waiting. –SH_

_Apology accepted. –JM_

Sherlock almost sneered at his phone in disgust. To point out his sarcasm or not? Jim obviously read it, and was ignoring it. But the detective didn’t want to play games today.

               _What do you want? –SH_

_You. –JM_

_Oh, please,_ Sherlock thought. Did Jim realize how pathetically ordinary he was coming across as? The detective hoped so. He would prefer that to the destruction of the single mind on Earth worthy of his own.

               As if he had read his mind, Jim texted again.

               _I’m awfully bored, in case you haven’t noticed. –JM_

_My sympathies. –SH_

_Speaking of sympathies, you have mine as well. So sorry to hear about the loss of Mrs. Watson and the baby. –JM_

_I am certain. –SH_

_Do you feel alone, Mr. Holmes? –JM_

Sherlock felt an instant chill fall over himself. Of course he felt bloody alone. He was right back where he started. Cases were his friends. All he had for family was Mycroft and his idiotic parents. A significant other was obviously out of the question. Why the Hell was Jim asking him about this?

               On one hand, it could be a projection. Jim could be missing him as well. He could have texted Sherlock to beg him to come back. They could run away together, throwing caution and whatever normalcy was left in their lives to the wind and live a life of crime together.

               On the other hand… this could be a ploy. Jim was acting unusually out of character. He could be trying to get a rise out of Sherlock. It had been several months; perhaps Moriarty had gotten over him mere days after he’d walked out of 221B. Maybe the criminal was trying to find a way to finish the killing spree he had started… the fall.

               Either that, or Jim was far more attached to him than Sherlock had anticipated. He didn’t know which idea was more disturbing.

               _I am alone. –SH_

_How hard is it, being alone in the flat with the dust bunnies? –JM_

_At least the dust bunnies don’t talk. –SH_

_I wouldn’t talk. For you. –JM_

_Then don’t. –SH_

Jim didn’t respond for a few moments. Sherlock was sickened by the slight disappointment that nagged at him as he waited for a response he didn’t know was coming.

               _It’s a good thing I grow tired of doing you favors. –JM_

_Favors? And here I thought you cared for me. –SH_

_Did I hurt your feelings? –JM_

_Sobs will shake my body this night. –SH_

_[I do care—DELETED] [I’m glad to hear that—DELETED] Aw. Just for that I may offer you one last favor. –JM_

_I don’t want any more favors. Your last one killed the man I love. –SH_

_[You didn’t love him. We both know it. – DELETED] [Liar, liar…--DELETED] [Shut up. Don’t lie. –DELETED] You don’t want to hear it, then? –JM_

Sherlock bit his lip. Oh, God, he wanted to hear it. But if he acknowledged the offer, he would come across as caring. Whether or not that was true, he didn’t want Jim to think he cared about what happened between them. He felt he owed John at least this. He owed him this small act of penance.

               But what good did denying himself this knowledge do John? There was no point in punishing himself like a martyr; it certainly wouldn’t help anything.

               The detective hated his rationale. And yet, that didn’t stop him from deciding to respond.

               _Enlighten me. –SH_

_I never could get you to say please. –JM_

_John could. –SH_

_And where has that gotten him? –JM_

The words stung. Why did Sherlock like that?

               _Farther than you ever did. With me. –SH_

_I’ve had you on your knees for me. Could John say as much? –JM_

_A glance from John meant more than sex did with you. –SH_

_That why you’re texting his murderer? –JM_

Dammit. Moriarty had him. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong, but he was suddenly so tired that he didn’t want to bother.

               _Once again, enlighten me. –SH_

_Join me. –JM_

He’d known it was coming, so why was it still such a shock? Jim was asking him to be with him. He _cared_. _Why_ did he have to care? Why couldn’t he be cold? This would be so much easier if he was cold…

               Sherlock was hit by a powerful desire to say yes. It would be so easy. A few taps to his screen and he could spend the rest of his life with his equal.

               But that seemed like a dream. Sherlock knew as soon as the notion leapt to the front of his mind that it was irrational. He knew he wasn’t going to be happy regardless of whether or not he was with Jim. In fact, he might feel worse if he was with the criminal.

               He had considered the idea on many occasions, but that didn’t mean it was something he truly believed he could be happy with. Jim had been possessive. He had loved Sherlock, but that was…over now. The detective didn’t think he could ever love Jim like he had before, knowing that he’d killed John. John was the one who had been able to care about him at his worst. Moriarty only did when it suited himself.

               At least, that was what Sherlock told himself as he typed out his response.

               _No. –SH_

<br />

               James felt like he had been punched in the gut when he read the detective’s response.

               This was it, then. Sherlock was through with him.The game was over. He would most likely never see the detective again.

               Or, at least, that was his plan.

               Jim sighed. He had known, deep down, that this would most likely be Sherlock’s response to the offer. He just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it until now.

               _Oh, Sherlock,_ Moriarty thought, _when did you get so dreadfully boring?_

The criminal continued to play with the pocketknife with one hand as he typed with the other. The silver blade glinted in the darkened light of the flat.

               _Darling, it’s boring when you act normal. –JM_

_Don’t call me darling. –SH_

_Why not? –JM_

Jim was feeling a strong urge to shoot someone. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he waited for Sherlock’s response.

               _[I don’t love you. –DELETED] [I’m not your pet. –DELETED] [I want to forget –DELETED] Goodbye, Jim. –SH_

Moriarty’s hand trembled as he shut his phone off, and he almost winced at the noise it made as he gingerly set it on the glass table nearest him.

               With a shriek of rage, he hurled his pocketknife at the wall in front of him. The knife hit the wall with a heavy thump, blade sunk deeply into the plaster. Jim found himself wishing that it was stuck in Sherlock’s forehead, instead.


	51. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: SUICIDE, SELF HARM, AND CHARACTER DEATH. This is no joke. I don’t want a single one of you getting triggered. If anyone can’t read it for their own safety, just let me know in a comment or PM and I will summarize in the AN before the next chapter. If at any point you feel like you are being triggered while reading this, I want you to stop reading. I tend to let out a lot of feelings in chapters like this, so they end up being very dark. Please be careful.

Jim tossed the knife in the air as he lay on the deep red sofa. His flat was dimly lit, as usual, and the London air had a chill in it that he felt not only on his skin, but within himself, as well.

               Absentmindedly, he wondered if, in the event that he did not catch the knife, the resulting blood would show on the similarly colored couch.

               _Bored, bored, bored._

The criminal was ever so bored as of late. Emotions now seemed an alien and unnecessary thing; so far beyond his reach that it was impossible to fathom how he had once been a slave to them.

               In a way, he supposed he still was. One little slip up and now where was he? He had lost his favorite toy. He and the consulting detective were right back where they had started. Parallel lines on a vast grid they were forced to spend their lives follwing…

               This was what Jim hated. Everything was so _basic._ Another weapons transfer to North Korea. More information about said weapons forwarded to South Korea. Burn a document here, stage an assassination there… where was the _fun_ in that?

               The criminal was beginning to realize that, truthfully, that was the fun. There really was nothing else _available._ He could try to enjoy the mediocrity, but then again, who would reduce themselves to a sheep just because they were the ones enjoying greener pastures?

               And so here he was. Tossing a blade higher and higher, getting a weak, yet primal, surge of adrenaline just to keep himself from going mad.

               Perhaps he was already there.

               The silver glinted as it flipped in midair. Jim debated for a moment whether he should try to get it stuck in the ceiling, then decided against it. That would end the fun.

               _Ooh, almost missed that time._

_Perfect catch._

_Short throw. Need to get a little higher next time…_

_Damn it._

Jim sat up, now holding the knife dangerously in his injured hand as he watched blood begin to bead on the pad of his thumb.

               It was a small nick. He almost felt disappointed. That would be a funny way to die, wouldn’t it? Death by knife throwing. No, death by boredom, in this case. Jim internally snorted; that would be a riot. And by a riot, he meant he was sure no one would think twice about it. Though some poor sap of a scientist could always diagnose it and make something off of it. Maybe write a book or some shit.

               He put slight pressure underneath the cut, allowing some scarlet to trickle down his thumb. Coal eyes followed it with mild interest.

               It never ceased to perplex him to imagine that he, like everyone else, was running off a system so simple, so automated. It made sense in this world, he supposed. The inner workings of the human body would of course all be identical, just like the mundane minds piloting themselves through their ordinary, boring routines, every day. The fact that he was trapped in this world was a curse almost as great as the fact that he was conscious of it.

               God, he was bored.

               Moriarty examined the knife with a dull glimmer of curiosity. Hadn’t Sherlock used knives to relieve boredom? No. It hadn’t been boredom. He had used them out of anger. Anger at the people he was forced to share this life with. Anger at himself. Despair had fueled their use for all the same reasons. The detective had broken skin in order to _feel_.

               Jim rolled up a sleeve. If Sherlock was good for anything, it was this. The detective wasn’t here in his physical form to cure Moriarty’s absence of feeling, but he was still there emotionally.

               Without flinching, Jim dragged the blade down his forearm, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. It was ever so ironic that he and Sherlock were ending just as they had begun. Leaving scars on Jim.

               Well, he could feel something. A sort of lightheadedness coupled with a strange buzzing in his head. That would be the endorphins.

               Yes, it was feeling. But not _really_. How the hell had Sherlock actually done this on a regular basis? This wasn’t the relief Jim needed.

               Two things hit Moriarty then. First, that the detective had once again failed him. Second, that he had never learned what had originally made Sherlock reduce himself to the blade. He knew it had had to do with ordinary people. Had the detective experienced something similar to Carl Powers?

               _Nah…_

               Of course not. Sherlock was nothing like him. Sherlock chose to ignore his equals. He would rather play with the sheep.

               Perhaps he hadn’t cut deep enough. Maybe he should add a few more, for good measure. An unenthusiastic Jim ran the blade across his skin a few more times and waited a few moments, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at himself.

               _Nope. Nada._

It had been worth a try. Now his arm was soaked in blood and he had a few more distinctive marks police could identify him by. At this point, though, it wasn’t as if he cared whether he was caught or not.

               Jim sighed and got up off the couch, holding his injured arm more to prevent staining the carpet than to hold the blood in. He blatantly ignored the fact that he was about to pass out as he attempted to force himself to keep from stumbling during the short walk to the sink.

               He dimly watched as blood mixed with running water, somehow feeling as though he had wasted not only time, but arm space. That could have been room for a more worthy mark, but instead he had taken up the space with his own

               _It could have been a mark from Sherlock…_

Finally, after a tedious amount of time, Jim shut the water off. Snatching a paper towel with a bit more force than was necessary, he blotted the three wounds dry and crumpled the paper into a ball. He squeezed it in a fist, falling into his thoughts again.

               _So fucking bored._

He had never complained about boredom as a child. Back then, James had been little enough to be naïve to the fact that when other children said they were ‘bored’, it was not the same boredom that he often felt. He had spent a few blissful years with only an inkling of the idea that he might not belong in this world. He had thought for a little while that he was, so to speak, normal.

               But then cold hard reality had hit the criminal. He had learned cruelty from his father, selfishness from his mother, and mercilessness from Carl Powers. All three lessons seemed to be easily condensed in the death of his sister.

               In fact, now that Jim thought on it, all three lessons could be condensed in himself, as well. Huh. Imagine that.

               Sherlock had possessed many of those aspects, too. James had seen his ruthlessness firsthand, when he was captive. The detective was certainly selfish; James had many occasions to prove that, but he had also been remarkably, strangely kind. He had been merciful. He had been… human. He was a puzzle. Was it possible for a human to be as fascinating as Sherlock Holmes was? Jim could think of no other instances in which he had discovered this phenomenon.

               Jim sighed. It didn’t matter now. Nothing really mattered, now. Except perhaps his boredom. He needed to get rid of that as soon as possible.

               _Sherlock will always matter._

_Irrelevant. Your feelings are irrelevant._

Moriarty’s arm throbbed as he, on a whim, dug out a revolver from one of the many places he kept them hidden in the flat. His eyes raked over the weapon in such a way that, had the gun been a person, it would have flinched away, uncomfortable.

               Ah, this old game. How he had missed it.

               Playing Russian roulette with oneself was a dangerous game. Perhaps that was why a twelve year old Jim had always loved it so much. He wished he could remember where he had learned it from. Children weren’t born with such knowledge. Though, knowing his divergence from the average population, perhaps he had been. The game was deliciously simple. Place a single bullet in the weapon. Leave the rest empty. See how long it takes to get your blood pumping.

               Moriarty had never lost. In a way, that was why he had stopped playing for a good period of time. Of course, there were other factors, but winning did get boring after a time. He was curious how it felt to lose. Sherlock had taught him that a few months ago. Maybe he would finally get a taste of losing at this game, as well.

               _Ah, old friend._

Jim studied the revolver fondly as he lay down on the sofa. He had faked his death once in this very same manner. Could he pull it off again? Was the great Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind truly immortal?

               Dark eyes glinting in the dim light, Jim clicked a single bullet into place, spun the cylinder, and shoved the weapon into his mouth, almost getting high off of his own synthesized amusement. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed the trigger.

               _He loves me…_

CLICK.

               Almost disappointed, the criminal’s breath left him in a hasty sigh. This was not a good start.

               _He loves me not…_

CLICK.

               Damn. Not again. Ah well, the odds were certainly worse this time. Despite this, Jim could still feel frustration beginning to rear its ugly head.

               _He loves me…_

CLICK.

               _He loves me not…_

CLICK.

               Goddammit! Was this honestly going to happen this way? Was he truly that undeserving of one little treat? One little ounce of mercy in his life? Was he destined to spend the rest of his days in this wasteland, herding sheep?

               _Sherlock is, too…_

But Sherlock didn’t want him. James felt a slight pang of emotion for the detective, and for a brief moment, he started missing him again. Maybe they would meet again, someday. Maybe the detective would have the honor of turning him in. Maybe Sherly would be the one to summon the sirens. Maybe his angel still had a mind to save him.

               _He loves me…_

There was no click this time.


	52. Haunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of drug use and slight suicidal thoughts.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, relishing the acrid taste of the smoke for a moment before breathing out again. He watched the toxins as they slowly evaporated and mixed with the night air, thinking it was probably the most beautiful thing he had seen in a long time.

               The detective stood in an empty parking garage. It was 1:58 a.m. on a Wednesday night in November, and he was beginning to become convinced that he was the only person on the planet. The cold bit into his palms with a cruelty that reminded him of only one person.

               James had appeared, yet again, in a dream that night. There had been the familiar scene of them kissing at the pool, and then there was the kissing in the rain, and _God,_ the encounter on the rooftop. He had never really thought much of the dreams in which Moriarty jumped in place of him. Not until a year ago.

               He still remembered picking up the phone, at seven a.m. Lestrade had spoken in a voice completely different from when he had notified Sherlock about John’s death. When he had spoken about John, the detective inspector had clearly felt for the consulting detective. His voice had held a slight tremor. He had been gentle, treating Sherlock like he was actually made of the porcelain his skin resembled.

               But when Lestrade had called Sherlock about Jim, his voice had held none of that. He had been perfectly contained. It had been a business call, nothing more. And the detective was eternally grateful for that. He was grateful because that detachment had made it easier to say no to seeing the body.

               If Sherlock was honest with himself, he didn’t think he would have been able to handle seeing James. He knew from the reports that the criminal had shot himself. He knew that there were cuts on his wrists when they found him. The face had, apparently, been barely recognizable. That was all he wanted to know, and it was all he could take.

               In fact, the detective could barely handle that much. Knowing that James had lost control in such a… typical way was horribly disturbing. Sherlock had done that to him. Sherlock had killed James just as he had killed John.

               Not only that, but he had killed _who_ James was. The criminal should have died on the job. He should have been shot by a terrorist cell or been taken down by a rival boss. This was so unbecoming of him. Sherlock had reduced him to one of the _ordinary_ people, and that was what really bothered the detective. He had forced James into becoming the one thing he hated the most.

               So, with recent events taken into account, it made sense why Sherlock kept waking up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath every night. He felt disgustingly, irrevocably, horrifyingly guilty for what he had done to the brilliant man that had been James Moriarty.

               It had never been this bad with John. Perhaps part of that had been James being there for him, but what did that say? The criminal had _always_ been there for him, and Sherlock had been selfish enough to only return the favor when it suited his pride. What did _that_ say?

               James had been the one to say ‘I love you’ first. He had been the one to take the first step across the street after their first fight. He had been the one to drag Sherlock into their first, rough kiss. He had been the one to teach the detective the art of lovemaking. He had always called first, always smiled first, and always put _Sherlock_ first, right up until the end.

               It made the detective want to scream.

               What had he been _thinking_? What had possessed him to think that James didn’t matter to him? Yes, he had killed John, but could the blame _truly_ be placed completely on him? What the Hell had _Sherlock_ done as the criminal tore himself apart with jealousy? At _most_ , the detective had offered meaningless, halfhearted reassurance. He had known James was jealous, so why hadn’t he done _more_? The fact that he hadn’t wasn’t only bad for James, but for John, as well.

               Sherlock still was haunted by the last kiss he and the criminal had shared. He could still remember the exact taste of James’s lips; the exact shape. He still remembered the glint in the criminal’s eyes; how dark they had been. He still remembered the crooked smile and the dark humor and the way his fingers had moved across the detective’s skin…

               Sherlock missed everything. He missed James. He missed all of it. It wouldn’t have been a heroic lifestyle. It wouldn’t have been morally sound. But _God damn it,_ since when had Sherlock been a hero? He had never been on the side of the angels. Hadn’t that been what James had first found fascinating about him?

               _“You told me you weren’t an angel.”_

_“And?”_

_“And I almost laughed, because I knew that was ridiculous.”_

               James hadn’t needed a hero. He’d claimed Sherlock as his angel on numerous occasions, but the detective knew that wasn’t at the root of it. He’d needed a companion, just as Sherlock had. The detective hadn’t _deserved_ James’s love. He knew he didn’t because he’d never felt this guilty before in his _life._ He knew from the way the criminal’s voice resounded in his ears, every moment of every day.

               _“Clever, clever…”_

_“You, my friend, have a praise fetish.”_

_“Of course, doofus.”_

_“That’s not quite true.”_

_“Thank you. Bless you.”_

_“Oh, honey.”_

_“I would have been so alone, Sherlock.”_

_“Sherly…”_

_“You’re my God, Sherlock.”_

_“I…love you.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you.”_

               Sherlock felt a sudden urge to vomit. He was finding it hard to breathe and there was something weighing in his chest. For a brief moment, he considered that he might be having a heart attack, but quickly discarded the idea. This always happened when he thought of James too much. In the course of the year, the detective had learned that sentiment was neither a good nor a bad thing. It was like a…like a wolf. If you fed it and loved it, it could be loyal; a pet. There were consequences, however, when its master stopped caring for it. It could either be an indispensable pleasure, unequaled by any other, or it was an enemy deadlier than anything Jim could have ever cooked up. Hadn’t he learned that from the Woman?

               He could still remember the feel of James’s hair. He could still remember the warmth of his skin. The detective almost let out a hysterical chuckle, remembering the day he had found out about the criminal’s ticklishness. _God_ , James had had a fantastic laugh. It had obviously been underused throughout his life, but that had made it all the better to listen to.

               James had trusted Sherlock with his entire backstory, his entire traumatic childhood, despite being tortured by the detective only a few days before. Sherlock had until the very end refused to give up certain aspects of his life to the criminal. There hadn’t even been any reasoning behind it. It had just been because the detective hated opening up to people. He had let his martyr attitude isolate himself to the point that it killed the two people in the world who meant the most to him.

               The detective shook his head slightly. He knew he was being pathetic. He knew from the way his hands were shaking that he didn’t deserve to feel this way. He didn’t deserve to weep at James’s grave, and he didn’t deserve to even feel like he was unworthy. Maybe it was time for his final act, as well.

               He was back to square one. Sherlock was right where he had been before he had met John. Without the doctor, or James, or even Lestrade (who was now far past the capacity of trusting him again), the detective hadn’t been able to stop himself from inching towards the drugs again. They helped him forget James, and therefore they helped him forget how much the criminal had hated it when he was on the sauce.

               _“You are so selfish, Sherlock Holmes. You disgust me.”_

_“WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST LET THINGS BE?”_

_“BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO WITHOUT YOU!”_

The detective twitched in spite of himself. Hadn’t that fight been the first time they had hugged? Had they ever done it after that? He didn’t think so. Why hadn’t he taken advantage of that while he’d had the chance?

               God, he was being pathetic. He wasn’t sure that the sentiment would be very well received, if James was available to offer to. The criminal would very likely have rolled his eyes…or at least, Sherlock hoped he would. The thought of James being reduced to anything less than his usual, brilliant self was a gut twisting notion. It was part of what made this so difficult.

               What could he have done to stop the criminal? How had he not deduced that he was suicidal? James _was_ changeable… perhaps their last conversation hadn’t been what pulled the trigger?

               It was unlikely, but the detective couldn’t resist investigating.With a trembling hand, Sherlock took out his phone and opened his last conversation with James.

               _Do you feel alone, Mr. Holmes? –JM_

Yes. Of course he felt bloody alone. Now that the detective looked at the message, he could see that James had obviously been projecting there. The criminal had felt alone, and felt angry that he felt that way. Why the Hell had Sherlock not seen that before?

               _I’m awfully bored, if you hadn’t noticed. –JM_

Wrong. James may have been bored, but not bored as a child without a toy was. He had been missing Sherlock. Just as Sherlock now missed him.

               _Sherlock, we need to talk. –JM_

_I know you’re reading these. –JM_

_Don’t be a child. Stop hiding. –JM_

_Sherlock, we both miss each other. –JM_

_Darling, my patience is wearing thin. I’m almost boooredd with youuu. –JM_

               Desperation at first. The earliest two messages were quite indicative of James’s need to resolve the conflict; to have things back to normal. Then a more angry one. It was meant to provoke. Something to get his blood pumping, and maybe remind Sherlock of the high he was missing out on. A bargain next. This one was a compromise; a suggestion for a mutual agreement that yes, they both missed one another. Then the last one. At first, it had disturbed Sherlock, reminding him that James had once been quite unreadable and frightening, but now he saw the hidden meaning. The criminal was lying. He was slowly receding back into the façade that he cared for nothing.

               _“No one ever gets to me.”_

Sherlock had gotten to him, just as James had gotten to the detective. Any statement otherwise was a blatant lie. Though perhaps that was Sherlock’s desperation talking.

               The detective stared at his phone a few more seconds. He was almost tempted to send a text. Of course James had no way of hearing him now. But if anything, it would make him feel just a bit better. He had been resisting the urge for a while now, but if James wasn’t going to hear it, then what harm could it do?

               He almost felt as though he was tainting the criminal’s memory, but nonetheless, Sherlock ended up typing.

               _I still might take you up on that one last favor. –SH_

The detective’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, and his hands shook as he waited a few seconds. This must have been how John felt after the fall. This was how it felt to love someone with everything you had, and lose them. This was how it felt to pine endlessly over a dead man. To have your chest heave and tears stream down your face every night as you woke from nightmares filled with ghosts.

               _Please reply. Oh, God, please reply. It’s been a year but I still love you. I’ve always loved you. I want you. Please, James._

Sherlock blinked back a few tears and sniffed once before resuming typing.

               _Don’t be dead. –SH_

Sherlock stuffed a fist in his mouth after that to quiet himself. He had never really been one to cry for long periods of time. For a while, he had successfully taught himself how _not_ to cry. James had changed all of that. The few sobs that wracked the detective’s body were all consuming. They were the sort that made your throat close and your head feel as though it was going to burst. He had cried like this once before. Back when he and James had had their first fight, it had seemed like the end of the world. Now that seemed an unbelievably petty reason to cry. Sherlock would prefer James being _alive_ and hating him infinitely more than the opposite. He would rather them be back at square one, if it meant the criminal could be alive.

               The detective checked his pockets for money, and after counting the pounds with blurred vision, made his way back into the shadows, ready for a high.


	53. Save

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal thoughts. Mentions of drugs, self harm, and (debatable) eating disorder. Also warning for a very, very long chapter (whoops).

Sherlock closed his eyes against the brisk wind, letting it ruffle his curls and chill his skin as he stood on the hospital rooftop. Opening his eyes again, he raked them across the landscape of the city spread out in front of him. Thousands of people moved like worker ants underneath the dismal, gray sky. There were so many of them, and yet the detective felt completely, utterly alone.

               _Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort,_ Moriarty’s voice echoed in his mind.

               It would. It would be so, so much easier. In fact, compared to this Hell he was living, it was easier than falling asleep. The idea of having to live like this for much longer was…unbearable.

               He didn’t belong in this world. It was as simple as that. He’d once had John to help lead him through it, but now that was gone. James had almost had the opposite purpose, standing by his side as they defied the world together. Now that, along with his one last hope of being truly happy, was gone. Sherlock refused to believe he would ever find a replacement for either John or James. It was not only incomprehensible, but also an insult to both of their memories.

               With shaking fingers, the detective composed his face and extracted a single, last cigarette from his pocket, taking his time as he lit it. The last light he would ever see, and it came from a lighter. Perhaps he had always synthesized his happiness. Perhaps he had been doomed from the moment he shook hands with James.

               Sherlock’s face was unreadable as he took the first, deep drag.

<br />

               _Got new revolvers. –SM_

_Thank God. You finally found a better supplier? –JM_

_Of course, boss. –SM_

_Good. Can’t have them jamming like that on the job. –JM_

_Of course not, boss. –SM_

_I need you to find out who is behind this. All damn year they’ve been able to follow me. Weapons are no use if they don’t function properly. –JM_

_Sure thing, boss. –SM_

_I grow suspicious, Moran. –JM_

_Will find them ASAP. –SM_

_Good. –JM_

_And how is our favorite detective? –JM_

_Boss? –SM_

_I asked you to find his location, did I not? –JM_

_I know. He’s on the hospital rooftop. –SM_

_WHAT? –JM_

_My deepest apologies, boss. –SM_

_[YOU IDIOTIC FUCKING BASTARD—DELETED] It did not occur to you that this was important? –JM_

_Why the Hell are we chatting when you know this? –JM_

_I will skin you if he jumps before I get there. –JM_

_[Typing]_

_DO YOU UNDERSTAND? –JM_

_Of course, boss. –SM_

_Good. –JM_

_[Typing]_

_Is there something else I should know? –JM_

_[Typing stopped]_

_MORAN? –JM_

_Boss, he’s on the sauce again. He’s lost a lot of weight. –SM_

_[I KNOW, YOU FUCKING DUMBASS.—DELETED] Why did you think I asked you to go to Tesco, earlier? –JM_

_You had better things to do? –SM_

_You’re very lucky you’re my favorite. –JM_

_Really, boss? –SM_

_No. –JM_

_I’m sorry, boss. –SM_

_If you value having four appendages, don’t talk to me for four days after this. –JM_

_Yes, boss. –SM_

<br />

               Sherlock stomped out the cigarette on the ground, wishing he had made it last longer. He’d tried to smoke it as slowly as possible, but somehow it still hadn’t lasted long enough. His eyes swept the cityscape, suddenly finding each and every building fascinating.

               The first time he and James had met here, his heart had beat rapidly with adrenaline and anticipation. The detective had been able to sense the energy, the tension in the air. Now, while he was aware of his own aura, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel the reality of the situation weighing on him. He was just a man, alone on a rooftop. Somehow, being with James had changed that, even when they had been enemies. It had made the situation seem like something more; something more important than two men, arguing alone together on the London skyline.

               Sherlock still remembered the first time he had dreamt of the rooftop. Never had he experienced a nightmare in which he himself was in danger here; it was always James. In fact, the first time he had ever dreamt of James as something other than a villain, the criminal had been the one to jump off the rooftop. The detective still remembered the panic of trying to save him, only to find him bleeding on the ground, anyway. _‘That’s my angel,’_ James had said to Sherlock. How odd it was that the detective had been so desperate to save the criminal from suicide in his dreams, when in reality he had barely lifted a finger to stop the actual event.

               Sherlock shivered, drawing his coat a bit tighter. He would never feel warmth again. The notion was strange to him.

               He took out his phone again, opening an old conversation with James, from before things had gotten complicated.

               _You watched Glee at one point, correct? –SH_

_[Delayed] It was one time, Sherlock. –JM_

_But you did, in fact, watch it. –SH_

_I was dating Molly. It couldn’t be avoided. I was playing nice, remember? –JM_

_Ah, yes. –SH_

_‘Playing.’ –SH_

_Love of God, Sherlock… -JM_

_More like love of Quinn’s baby. –SH_

_I don’t know what that is. –JM_

_I just looked at the watch history on Netflix. –SH_

_Why the Hell are you looking at that? –JM_

_Bored. –SH_

_I see. –JM_

_Just as you must have been bored when you finished the entirety of season one. –SH_

_Fuck off. –JM_

_I was working and needed white noise in the background. –JM_

_‘Noise’ indeed. –SH_

               James hadn’t responded after that, though the memory of the consultants’ following conversation that night almost managed to bring a smile to the detective’s face. The criminal had once described his sister as ‘light’, and Sherlock hadn’t known how to respond. It had seemed such a strange, preposterous statement at the time. How could a person be described as light? However, now the detective was beginning to realize, looking back on it, that James also had a certain light about him. Maybe that was what happened when you loved someone. They become your…sun, in a way. Little Mary had been James’s sun, and James had been Sherlock’s.

               _‘You’re my God, Sherlock,’_ the criminal’s old statement still echoed in the detective’s mind, from time to time. Not everyone needed a God, but everyone needed a sun.

               Sherlock pressed his hand against the chimney-like structure behind him to stop it from shaking. There was no faking it, this time. He was actually going to jump. He almost looked forward to it—the detective was craving a high so badly at this point that just the promise of relief alone was enough to tempt him into taking that one final step.

               Sherlock tossed his phone aside. He certainly wouldn’t be needing it, and he couldn’t think of a single person who would actually want to see his conversations with the consulting criminal. The detective took one step towards the edge, then another, then-

               “Long time, no see.”

               Sherlock’s heart stopped, as did his legs. He had misheard. He was hallucinating because he was afraid to die. A coward until the end…

               “Turn around, doofus.”

               There it was again. That was twice. Were the hallucinations that bad? Maybe he’d taken more than the opium last time he’d been to his dealer. Maybe this was a side effect…

               Ever so slowly, he turned around, and disbelief rapidly turned into something borderline hysteric as his eyes widened, taking in the sight in front of him.

               James Moriarty. 5’11. Slicked back brunette hair. Perfectly tended eyebrows. Westwood. He was there. Right down to the soft, Irish drawl that Sherlock had missed so much. He held two bright, red apples, one of which he promptly took a large bite out of, never breaking eye contact with the detective as he chewed and swallowed before continuing.

               “Favor granted,” James said cheekily, “Miss me?”

               The detective was trying to remember how to breathe. Air didn’t seem to be flowing properly in and out of his lungs. His ears rang and his eyes remained alight with panic and shock as he watched concern and something disturbingly similar to disappointment slowly dim the criminal’s gaze.

               Sherlock, to James, looked half dead. His once sharp gaze was dulled, as was his formerly healthy hair. His face was sallow, and his cheekbones stuck out far more than could be healthy. The criminal wondered how he didn’t lose his balance, with the winter winds that were buffeting both of them.

               James licked his lips, waiting for a response that he was beginning to think wasn’t coming. His dark eyes studied the detective as a few stray snowflakes began to fall. Sherlock was clearly afraid. Of what, the criminal was unsure.

               “You’re-” Sherlock struggled to speak, and his voice sounded choppy as he finally forced the words out, “You’re alive.”

               The criminal’s brow furrowed at the obvious observation, “Yes, of course.”

               “ _Shut. Up,_ ” Sherlock spat.

               To the detective’s surprise, James followed the command, watching him with a now carefully guarded gaze that reminded Sherlock of how a teacher would look at a student.

               “ _All this time,_ ” the detective hissed, “You were—you _lied_.”

               “Something I do quite often, I think you’ve found.” James was still watching Sherlock with concern. It almost looked as if he was close to _tears…_

               The look that the detective threw the criminal was razor sharp, cutting through him like a shard of glass. It had never occurred to James that Sherlock would be angry. This was an interesting surprise.

               “Why?” the detective’s voice was as icy as his eyes, despite the fact that his entire body was shaking; from cold or lack of drugs or both, James didn’t know.

               Rather than respond, the criminal took a few steps towards Sherlock, arm holding the unbitten apple extended.

               “Eat it,” he nodded to the fruit.

               The detective gave the red sphere an incredulous look before furiously snatching it from James’s hand.

               “Not until you tell me why you did it.”

               The criminal appeared to be deep in thought for a moment, and his gaze strayed from Sherlock for a moment before he miraculously, instantaneously, broke into hysterical laughter.

               For a fleeting moment, the detective was tempted to push him off the edge himself, but this rage soon turned into dull confusion as he watched James continue to cackle ceaselessly, turning his back from Sherlock and taking a few steps before spinning around, arms spread wide, to face him again.

               The detective stared. He was clearly missing something here. Either that, or James was missing something… that something being his mind.

               After waiting a few seconds, the criminal seemed to decide to explain for himself.

               “I win,” he whispered, still grinning evilly.

               Sherlock shook his head, narrowing his eyes, “What?”

               James shook his head, taking a few steps towards the detective, his eyes on the ground but still just as filled with delight.

               “Oh, Sherly,” he chided, “It’s _obvious._ You _fell_ for it. I got the last word. You were about to jump, just now. You _fell_. I win.” The criminal took a triumphant bite of the apple, excitement only fading as he took in the detective’s falling face.

               “So that’s why you came back?” he sneered, “To gloat.”

               James rolled his eyes, as though the very notion were ridiculous, “Sherlock, darling-”

               “SHUT UP!” Sherlock couldn’t take much more of this, “I am _not_ your darling. I am not your little pet. You can’t just take me out and play with me whenever you-”

               The detective stopped, not feeling very much like wasting his feelings on someone who clearly didn’t care, anyway. Now that James stood right in front of him, the detective’s former sentiment was fading quickly. _Why_ had the criminal faked his own death? He knew how to hide. If he hadn’t wanted to see Sherlock, the world was his oyster. He could have run to anywhere he wanted.

               Unless… he _had_ wanted to see Sherlock.

               It made sense. James had faked his death to see Sherlock’s reaction. To gauge the level of the relationship they held; whether it was worth keeping.

               Sherlock had never felt so _used._

               “…you’re more than a pet,” James said cautiously.

               “What a _relief,_ ” Sherlock said cruelly.

               For whatever reason, the criminal’s face relaxed slightly after this. The two stared at one another for what felt like forever, taking in the sight of their other half they had both gone so long without.

               “You were really going to do it,” James finally said, nodding towards the ledge behind Sherlock.

               The detective was silent for a moment before nodding curtly. He averted his eyes and noticed that snow was starting to fall a bit more now, drifting past them in tiny, tiny flakes.

               “I never wanted-” The criminal started to say.

               “Then _why_?”

               James took a few steps towards the detective until they were closer than they had been in years. Sherlock was surprised that it still made his heart jump and his chest heat up, despite the fact that he was practically choking on grief and things unsaid and impossible to understand.

               The criminal hesitantly put a hand on the detective’s upper arm, giving Sherlock a mysterious sense of déjà vu, and led him towards one of the chimney-like structures. Both of them sat down with their backs to it before either of them spoke again.

               “Eat,” James nodded to the apple in the detective’s hand. Sherlock gave him a defiant look and, at the criminal’s raised eyebrows, finally took a reluctant bite. He had to force himself to swallow—it was strange eating something after going so long with so little.

               James watched the sky in front of him for a moment before speaking again. His eyes looked darker than usual today. They were fathomless; not anything like the first meeting between the consultants on the rooftop, where the sun had illuminated them until they were almost hazel.

               “I needed to think, Sherlock,” the criminal finally said, turning his own apple in his hands, “I thought you didn’t want me. You quite possibly still don’t. And because of recent events that had taken place I…I-” he took a moment to decide a way to articulate his thoughts, “I needed to distance myself. Take an objective perspective. I was too attached and I would go to any lengths to bring myself closer. I’ve never had a—never had anyone who I loved like you. It was dangerous. And I only realized that when I realized what I was doing to myself over you.”

               “…if this is your apology,” Sherlock’s nails dug into the apple, his hands trembling as he watched the snowflakes, “Then I don’t accept. Nor will I ever.”

               “I didn’t expect you to,” James said quietly, a little too weakly for the detective’s taste. This ignited the currently subdued anger inside of Sherlock into a full blown blaze. It showed in his eyes when he turned to the criminal to reply.

               “If your father,” he was almost pleased when James flinched, “tried to _apologize_ to you for killing Mary, how would _you_ feel?”

               The criminal was silent. Sherlock had a point. In fact, it only confirmed his earlier suspicions that had plagued him after Mary’s death. He truly _was_ his father, then…

               The detective narrowed his eyes, reading James’s thoughts, “This isn’t about _you_ , James. You think everything is about _you._ ”

               “If you didn’t want me back, then why the Hell were you texting a dead man?” the criminal was starting to get angry. Not only angry, but a familiar hopelessness was nagging at the corners of his mind. Fuck it. This was why he had left in the first place.

               “Dead men get listened to,” Sherlock countered simply.

               James thought of John, “Indeed,” he spat.

               The detective had heard enough. He stood up and turned away so quickly that he didn’t see the panic that quickly flooded James’s expression.

               “Why didn’t you just kill me?” Sherlock asked the whole of London, raising his voice slightly, “You would have had me forever to yourself, in a way. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

               James could feel cold creeping into his bones, though it wasn’t temperature so much as situation that caused it. When he crossed his arms for warmth he looked almost like a child, lost in the snow.

               “I could never kill you,” the criminal struggled to raise his voice loud enough for the detective to hear over the wind, “Burn you, yes, but kill you…” To Sherlock’s ears, he sounded almost bitter.

               “…When you were gone,” the detective said, hate adding to the list of things making his hands shake, “I thought I would rather have you alive and hating me than dead and loving me.”

               James’s heart almost stopped. He struggled to speak for a moment before finally stuttering, “I… didn’t know it was possible for someone to-”

               “NO OF _COURSE_ YOU DIDN’T KNOW!” Sherlock spun around and threw the apple, with all his strength, off the rooftop into the streets below, the detective was too angry to notice the small glint of fear in the criminal’s eyes. “You only think about yourself! You can’t comprehend that someone can love enough to let someone go! Why the Hell do you think I dropped the romantic idea with John? I was tearing myself apart over how I acted towards you, James! And then you pull _this_ little stunt! I faked my death to save the people I love! You faked yours so you could convince yourself that _you_ were worth something. You wanted to see my _exact_ reaction to a faked suicide, which is why you slit the wrists for good measure. Fantastic idea, that. I did it out of pain, James! It’s no small thing to take a blade to your wrists. To think that _I_ had been the one to reduce you to where I had been when I had started was unbearable! And all this time, you’ve been analyzing my reaction, watching what I was doing, how I couldn’t sleep, how I-”

               “I wasn’t really watching until a week ago. And Sebastian-”

               “You couldn’t even be bothered to watch _yourself_! You hired someone to do it for you!” Sherlock was shouting himself hoarse at this point.

               “It wasn’t like that! Someone’s been sabotaging my weapons suppliers for the past year and I had to-”

               “Fantastic to know I’m first priority,” the detective sneered.

               “Stop it, Sherlock,” James looked and sounded much smaller than he usually did, “I didn’t—I love-”

               “No. Stop,” Sherlock shook his head in disgust, “Another ‘I love you’ won’t do it this time, James. It really won’t. You can’t cheat your way out of everything, contrary to what your life experiences have taught you.”

               The criminal barely managed to turn away from the detective before choking back a sob. Sherlock briskly strided over and with a rough hand on his shoulder whipped James around to face him with enough force that he lost his grip on his apple. The fruit looked remarkably red compared to the grey rooftop and the increasing flurries of snow.

               “No. I want to see you cry,” the detective narrowed his eyes dangerously.

               The criminal’s despair was quickly replaced with fear. His heartbeat increased and he considered running, before deciding that there would likely be later consequences. No, he had better try to reason.

               “Sherlock, stop.”

               “Stop what? Stop frightening you? You were dead for a year, James! Surely nothing should frighten a ghost?”

               “I said, stop.”

               “You’re a dirty coward. Fight for once, you little rat-”

               “SHUT UP!”

               The knee to Sherlock’s chest caught him off guard and sent him stumbling. He barely had time to get a breath in before James collided with him, sending them both straight towards the edge. Just as horrifying reality began registering with both consultants, however, the criminal’s shoes lost their grip on the gathering layer of snow on the rooftop, throwing off their balance enough that the detective ended up on his back, head and shoulders over open air, with James on top of and slightly to the side of him.

               The two glared at one another for a moment, chests heaving, their breath making small clouds that were quickly dissipated by the freezing wind.

               “Please,” James’s face twisted as he almost begged the word, “don’t call me that again.”

               Sherlock stared. It was just beginning to dawn on him that this was _James._ Dead-for-a-year James. He wasn’t sure whether that made him feel more or less angry.

               The criminal could feel the detective’s bones vibrating with tremors through his shirt and coat. Good God, Sherlock had let himself go. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d been tearing himself apart over James. The drugs and the poor eating and sleeping habits had clearly taken their toll on his health.

               The detective felt the weight on top of him lessen until he was gently pulled into a sitting position by James. They were now both sitting on the ledge, backs to the front of the building. The two didn’t move for a while, both lost in their own thoughts as snow flew past them. The criminal had thought this would fix things, but instead it seemed to be bringing up more problems than it was repairing. In fact, it really hadn’t repaired anything, to his knowledge.

               “So you and John-?” James began quietly, face unreadable as he processed the new information. Now that he knew he had been right all along, he didn’t even feel so upset about it anymore.            

               “Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, not looking at him, “There was one kiss, before I knew you. Nothing happened. I didn’t tell you because I thought-”

               “-I would do something mad,” the criminal finished, “You might as well have told me.”

               “I know,” the detective turned to look at him, “I know I should have.”

               James’s brow furrowed for a moment in confusion, “You were better off not, though.”

               “Perhaps the outcome would have been different if I had,” Sherlock turned away again, “Perhaps that one less secret would have-”

               “I don’t like talking like this,” the criminal said quietly, changing the subject.

               “Like what?”

               “You know,” James sneered, “ _Perhaps_ if I had been born a prince in India I would still have a sister. _Perhaps_ if I’d been born with any money, I wouldn’t hate the world I live in so much. _Perhaps_ -”

               “You’re doing it again,” Sherlock interrupted.

               “What?”

               “Making things about you.”

               James stared.

               “You don’t have to do everything alone, James,” the detective said quietly.

               “…I am alone, Sherlock.”

               The detective didn’t think he’d ever seen the criminal look as vulnerable as he did in that moment. The pieces were starting to come together. Maybe the reason James had always been the first to say ‘I love you’ was because he never expected to get one in return.

               If someone else had said it to Sherlock, he would have called them a liar, but nonetheless he felt the words rolling off his tongue as he pondered James’s eyes, “You’re never alone.”

               Something in that statement seemed to get through to the criminal, because for a moment he made as though to hug the detective, then seemed to think better of it, retreating back to a neutral position.

               “I wanted to die,” the detective finally said.

               “I know,” the criminal whispered.

               “No, I mean,” Sherlock continued, slightly frustrated, “I mean when I first started. Razors to the wrist. I never told you. I was…taken advantage of.”

               James’s eyes were dark as he studied the detective, “You mean…?”

               “Yes. Sexually. You’re the second person who knows.”

               “And who was the first?” the criminal inquired.

               “…Mycroft.”

               James tried to keep his expression neutral, but Sherlock still must have seen a glimpse of the horror he felt, because the detective continued, “It was a friend of Mycroft’s. I was naïve and stupid. And he swore me to secrecy to save his own neck.”

               James squinted against the wind, “Why tell me now?”

               “I want you to know.”

               The criminal’s eyes searched Sherlock’s.

               “So we’re not keeping secrets, then?” James asked quietly.

               “…Is it ‘we’?” the detective challenged.

               For a moment there was no sound other than the wind and traffic below them. Both were starting to realize how cold they actually were, and Sherlock’s need to get closer to James was beginning to rival his need for another cigarette.

               “Is it?” the criminal countered. He was suddenly terrified that Sherlock wouldn’t want to be back together. There was a very real possibility that he could walk home alone tonight. The look in the detective’s eyes said otherwise, though. Sherlock looked down, suddenly fascinated by James’s leg.

               “What would we do?” the detective wondered out loud. There really only seemed to be one possibility. One that was reasonably do-able, at least. He wasn’t even sure that he wanted that option.

               The criminal leaned in closer to Sherlock, and his dark eyes called out with a temptation that was filled with more passion than the detective had ever been looked at with by anyone else. He wondered for a moment if his eyes seemed plain to James.

               “Fake it,” the criminal whispered, then raised his voice higher with more confidence, “You could fake it again, Sherlock. I’d help; we could run.”

               The detective forced a tight lipped smile, and James’s fevered excitement turned to confusion at the expression.

               “What?” the criminal inquired.

               “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Sherlock said grimly.

               James quickly shook his head, “You always have a choice. If you don’t-”

               “No, James,” the detective sighed, meeting the criminal’s eyes again and quickly calming his expression, “I don’t.”

               James suddenly remembered an earlier conversation they had had, just before he had first moved into 221B. Sherlock had said he didn’t have a choice in loving the criminal, then. Perhaps there had never been a choice for the two of them.

               “Sherlock…I missed you,” James confessed.

               “Did you really slit your wrists?” the detective pushed the previous statement aside, not ready to confront it quite yet.

               The criminal nodded, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes, “I knew you used it for…anger. For relief,” he pulled up both his coat sleeve and shirt sleeve quickly to show the detective the scars, suddenly feeling almost embarrassed for having them.

               “And did it help?”

               James turned to meet Sherlock’s stern gaze, “Not a bit.”

               The detective sighed, not surprised by this and wanting to change the subject, “I thought of you. Every day.”

               James looked down again, “And I, you.” It was a horrific understatement. The criminal had distanced himself, certainly. Despite this, not a day had passed where he hadn’t thought of Sherlock in some way, shape, or form.

               Sherlock shook his head, “Did you get what you wanted?” It was phrased as a question, but it felt like a demand to James.

               The criminal shook his head, “I wanted you, Sherlock. From the beginning.” All this time, James had thought he’d wanted other things. He’d wanted to push the detective to his death, he’d wanted John dead, and he’d wanted to watch Sherlock weep for him. All of those really boiled down to one thing, and that was the detective.

               After waiting through a few moments of silence, the criminal looked up at Sherlock once more. It was one of the few times he felt he was truly seeing the detective, completely uncensored and raw. He wondered if Sherlock felt exposed. _He_ certainly felt exposed…

               “You’ve started smoking again,” James pointed out, gaze redirecting to the detective’s shaking hands. Both men knew that he was speaking of more than cigarettes.

               “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

               “I’ll help you stop,” the criminal said deeply.

               “Is that what you want? I thought you liked me high.”

               James frowned, “I like when you’re high on me.”

               Sherlock’s eyes were boring holes into the criminal. He felt like he was growing smaller throughout this entire encounter. James felt like he was a child again, wondering what was wrong with him, trying to figure out his place. The two just sat like that for another moment, but it was almost as though they were continuing their conversation.

               _I love you. I am so sorry. I need you. Please don’t leave me alone, Sherlock,_ James’s eyes said.

               _I am terrified of trusting you again. I wish I could scare you away like other people because then I would be able to die and stop fighting. But then you stay and I remember why I loved you in the first place,_ Sherlock seemed to respond.

               “I am a selfish man, Sherlock,” the criminal broke the silence, “and I will, truly, not be surprised if a rational man such as yourself wants to tell me to piss off,” he paused, voice dropping at the end as the detective’s eyes almost stole his thoughts from him, “But I mean it when I say you were the best distraction I have ever had the privilege of encountering. You still are.”

               Sherlock could reject James easily. He could so simply say ‘not good enough’, and walk away. But the fact of the matter was that the detective had deepened his perception of himself in the past year, and realized that he in fact was also a selfish man. And, being a selfish man with nothing left to lose left you with less of an inclination to do the ‘right’ thing.

               Especially when doing the ‘right thing’ would leave him six feet underground.

               Rather than answering, the detective leaned in, closing his eyes and allowing his lips to meet James’. The combination of apple, mint, and tobacco that resulted was awful, and their lips were cold, and Sherlock seemed to have receded back into his former clumsy kissing skills over the course of the year, yet it was quite possibly the best kiss the two had ever shared. The criminal laced his fingers through the detective’s tangled, soaking hair, and Sherlock wrapped his shaking arms around James, pushing them closer together with all his strength, which wasn’t much.

               They may have been freezing cold, and completely alone in the world, but in that moment, both lost consultants felt completely safe. They both felt home.

               Yes, there were other choices. They just chose to ignore those.

<br />

               Sally Donovan rolled her eyes at the ring of her cell phone. God, Anderson couldn’t do anything on his own, could he?

               Her annoyance turned to confusion, however, when she looked at the caller ID. _Sherlock Holmes,_ it read. Hadn’t Lestrade stopped consulting him? Why the Hell would the freak be calling _her_? Oh, God, what if he needed help with something? What if he begged her to help him find a new job?

               Against her better judgment, she answered the call as she glanced both ways before preparing to cross the street to the hospital. She needed to get a few DNA tests back from Molly—hopefully she wasn’t feeling too chatty today.

               “What do you want, freak?” she answered, rolling her eyes.

               _“Sally?”_ a pained voice said.

               “Yes, this is Sally Donovan speaking,” she snapped. God, she didn’t have the time for this.

               _“Look up_ ,” the voice sounded as though it was crying—Donovan wasn’t completely sure it was Holmes even speaking. She didn’t know he was _capable_ of crying.

               “Just, hold on let me-” she took a step off the pavement.

               _“No! Stay exactly where you are!”_ the sudden increase in volume startled her, and Donovan froze in her tracks, stepping back onto the pavement and off the road. She caught her breath when she actually followed the other instruction she had been given.

               Sherlock Holmes was on the rooftop, prepared to jump.

               _He’s faking. He’s faking it again. He must be,_ a voice in her head told her.

               _“Never thought I’d be doing this again,”_ the voice sobbed.

               “Sherlock, what are you-?”

               _“This phone call, it’s… it’s my note.”_

“What? Your note? Holmes, what are you talking-? Why _me_?”

               _“Goodbye, Sally._ ”

               “Wait, no… DON’T!” she shouted, but it was too late. Sally could only watch in horror as the figure of Sherlock Holmes plummeted from the rooftop to the ground, where it lay limp as a crowd gathered.

               He hit the ground. It was real.

               _I was so horrible to him. I was so awful…_ Donovan raced over to join the crowd, tears forming in her eyes. He’d done it. And this time, he had even more reason to do it. Everyone around him had died, even that creep James he had always had around.

               Her eyesight blurred as she ran to join the crowd.

<br />

               _“What do you want, freak?”_

“Jesus…” James muttered next to Sherlock. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said she was a bitch.

               “Sally?” the detective’s voice cracked as he feigned despair.

               _“Yes, this is Sally Donovan speaking,”_ the girl snapped.

               “Look up,” Sherlock directed, hoping dearly that Donovan didn’t have good enough vision to tell it wasn’t him standing on the ledge, but a similarly shaped dead body, complete with mask and contacts, standing stiff as a scarecrow thanks to an iron rod holding it in a standing position.          

               _“Just, hold on let me-”_

               “No! Stay exactly where you are!” the detective commanded, “Never thought I’d be doing this again.” James couldn’t contain his laughter anymore and let out a loud snort, which Sherlock quickly shushed.

               _“Sherlock, what are you-?”_

               “This phone call, it’s… it’s my note,” the detective was forcing himself not to look at the criminal, who was still giggling.

_“What? Your note? Holmes, what are you talking-? Why me?”_

               “Goodbye, Sally,” Sherlock finished, hanging up the phone and nodding to Moran, who was lying out of sight next to the ledge. Ever so carefully, the sniper tugged the iron rod away from the body just so that it fell forward, the balances hidden under the skin working so that it tumbled through the air as a real person would—feet first, but still not vertically. When the sniper awkwardly rolled the first few feet away from the ledge, so that he could walk away without being seen, James completely lost it. Sebastian found himself wondering how the Hell _this_ was the most dangerous criminal mastermind in all of London—possibly the world, as he tried to summon what little dignity he had left. Moriarty had sent him on a few strange tasks, but this took the cake.

               Upon seeing the criminal doubled over in laughter, Sherlock could no longer contain a smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in a very long time.

               “Ah, I hope that keeps her up at night,” James wiped a tear away from his eye, still chuckling.

               “She still sounded pissed at the end,” the detective exclaimed, exasperated.

               “Oh, honey,” the criminal gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, I still love you.” He snorted at his own joke.

               “With all due respect, boss, you’re not anything like I pictured,” Moran decided to interrupt the giggle-fest. This was the first time he had ever actually met or seen Moriarty in person, and he had to admit that he was simultaneously impressed and disappointed. He was quite slight for someone who had clawed his way up the totem pole so high. Sebastian just wondered what lie beneath those unsettling eyes… scratch that—he’d rather not know.

               “Oh, Moran, you’re still here?” Moriarty tried to rein in his laughter for long enough to speak coherently, “Don’t you have things to do?”

               “I was just leaving, boss,” Moran did his best not to roll his eyes at the two giggling fools in front of him. For whatever reason, it made him mysteriously happy to hear James still laughing as he walked away. Maybe love was possible for anyone, after all.

               As the criminal watched Sebastian leave, he became aware that he was the only one still laughing, and turned to look at Sherlock. The detective’s smile was draining from his eyes, to be replaced by something somewhere in between suspicion and curiosity. He cocked his head to the side, studying James.

               The criminal knew _exactly_ what Sherlock was thinking.

               “Sherlock Holmes,” James scolded, “You aren’t _jealous_ , are you?”

               “Jealous?” Sherlock was almost offended by the idea. Just because the criminal always had contact with a well bodied, decent looking male who followed his every order did _not_ mean that he was-

               _Oh._

               “I am not jealous,” the detective persisted defensively.

               “Yes, you are,” a grin was spreading across James’s face, lighting up his eyes. He gave Sherlock a playful shove.

               “Ridiculous,” the detective rolled his eyes, but was unable to keep frowning when James pushed him to the ground.

               “You’re such a doofus,” the criminal teased, leaning in close, now on top of Sherlock. The detective struggled to think of a response for a moment, at the moment consumed with how James looked with the light from the sky surrounding him like a halo.

               “I, em—weshouldleavethescene,” Sherlock finally managed to stammer out. He was grateful when the criminal scoffed at the notion.

               “Bo-ring,” he proclaimed, “What an ordinary idea, Sherlock.”

               “And when dear Sebastian comes back to check up on you, he’ll find us both naked?”

               “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” James purred, sending a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. The detective licked his lips in response. “You’re gonna love being dead, Sherlock,” the criminal continued, “No one ever bothers you.”

               “Shame,” the detective said softly, eyes never leaving James’s mischievous gaze, “There’s at least one distraction I don’t mind having around.”

               The criminal’s expression relaxed a great deal just then, and his chest was buzzing with warmth as he leaned down all the way to meet Sherlock’s lips. The sun warmed James’s back in the otherwise cold air as his mouth moved with the detective’s, his red scarf as soft against Sherlock’s chin as the detective’s lips were against his own.

               Sherlock froze when the criminal’s lips left his and a strange spasm moved through James’s body. He was concerned for all of two seconds before he realized that the criminal was actually _laughing_ through their kiss _._

               The detective sighed resignedly, “…James-”

               Sherlock could feel every one of the criminal’s nearly silent chuckles as he answered, gasping slightly for breath, “I’m… I’m sorry Sherlock, just… _imagine her face._ ”

               The detective was puzzled for a moment before it dawned on him what James was talking about.

               “You’re still on _Donovan_?”

               The criminal snorted.

               “It’s not _that_ funny!” Sherlock was still frustrated with the end of their kiss.

               James nodded, still grinning like a fool as he buried his face into the detective’s scarf, laughter shaking his body.

               Sherlock grinned, letting the sun warm his face and resting a hand on James’s back, absentmindedly moving his thumb in circles.

               “You’re insane,” the detective remarked affectionately.

               “Love you, too,” came James’s muffled reply.

               The next time their lips met, they did not break apart so quickly.

**Author's Note:**

> AHAHAHA! Did I nearly get ya? I think I got one or two of you… So, anyway, serious time! I would like to thank each and every one of you for sticking with me all the way through this. You cannot fathom how much your support means to me. It keeps me writing, which keeps me living. So thank you. Thank you to EVERY reviewer, whether you left one or ten reviews. I love ALL of you buckets. I really hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I do not think there will be a sequel to this, but I will be writing more Sheriarty stories very soon. If any of you have questions/comments/concerns/late night musings about the ending or anything else, just PM me. I don’t bite. Once again, thank you for EVERYTHING, and I will hopefully see you very soon. #Stayin alive. -L


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